I 


MAlAj 


INTRODUCTION 


/Criticism  is  the  mission  of  the  prophet*. 
^^  the  act  of  Paul  announcing  to  a  market- 
crowd  of  heedless  and  profane  foreigners,  "  an 
unknown  God."  In  this  spirit  I  called  my  first 
critical  work,  The  Man  Shakespeare — Ecce 
Homo ! 

Criticism  is  an  act  of  worship,  a  dedication  of 
the  spirit  in  love  and  an  Interpretation  of  the 
divine,  the  result  of  Intimate  communion  of  soul. 
As  such  an  interpretation  I  put  forth  The  Women 
of  Shakespeare. 

I  had  thought  of  calling  it  The  Woman  Shake- 
speare; for  the  woman  a  man  loves  Is  the  Ideal 
in  himself;  the  veiled  goddess  who  corresponds 
to  all  the  desires,  conscious  and  unconscious,  of  his 
I  nature  as  lock  to  key,  as  light  to  the  eye.     These 
ijare  correlatives  and  suppose  and  complete  each 
t'other.     To  find  fault  therefore  with  the  woman 
pne  loves  Is  to  blame  oneself.     He  alone  fails 
to  win  her  who  fails  to  possess  himself:  she  was 
.ll  ix 


Introduction 

his  from  the  beginning  if  he  be  all  he  might  be: 
failure  here  even  in  degree  is  tragic. 

It  would  only  be  necessary  then  to  reproduce 
faithfully  the  portrait  Shakespeare  has  given  of 
his  mistress  in  order  to  describe  him  to  the  life 
for  all  those  who  have  eyes  to  see.  This  book, 
as  I  conceived  it,  is  in  essence  complementary  to 
The  Man  Shakespeare.  Here  again  Shake- 
speare will  reveal  himself  as  the  gentle,  irresolute, 
meditative  poet-thinker-lover  we  learned  to  know 
in  Orsino-Hamlet-Antony,  an  aristocrat  of  most 
delicate  sensibilities  and  sympathetic  humour 
whose  chief  defects  are  snobbishness  and  over- 
powering sensuality,  if  indeed  this  latter  quality 
is  not  to  be  reckoned  as  a  virtue  in  an  artist  or 
at  least  as  an  endowment.  But  the  public  would 
probably  have  misunderstood  the  title  The 
Woman  Shakespeare,  and  so  I  changed  it  to  The 
Women  of  Shakespeare  in  order  also  to  mention 
and  describe  all  the  women  who  in  any  conspicu- 
ous degree  entered  Into  the  poet's  life  or  at  least 
affected  his  art.  There  were  four  of  them:  his 
mother,  his  wife,  his  mistress  and  his  daughter. 

His  jealous  scolding  shrew  wife,  who  was  eight 
years  his  senior,  overshadowed,  as  we  shall  see 
all  his  early  manhood,  and  left  her  bitter  mark 
on  most  of  his  youthful  work. 


Introduction 

We  have  an  extraordinary,  vivid  spirit-photo- 
graph of  her,  so  to  speak,  as  Adriana  in  the 
Comedy  of  Errors:  her  furious  temper  forces  it- 
self to  view  again  where  ill-temper  is  utterly  out 
of  place  in  the  raging,  raving  Constance  of  King 
John,  and  again  in  Katharine  in  The  Taming  of 
the  Shrew. 

The  shadow  cast  by  his  bitter  nagging  wife  was 
exorcised  by  the  advent  in  1596-7  of  that  ''queen 
of  Beauty  "  who  changed  the  world  for  Shake- 
speare, and  was,  I  believe,  the  maid-of-honour, 
Mary  Fitton. 

We  have  a  realistic  snapshot  of  her  in  Rosaline 
in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  a  superb  photograph  of  her 
as  Rosaline  again  in  Lovers  Labour's  Lost;  ideal- 
istic happy  impressions  of  her  in  Julia,  Juliet, 
Portia,  Beatrice,  and  Rosalind;  passionate  full- 
length-  pictures  of  her  in  the  Sonnets,  and  again 
as  "  false  Cressid,"  and  finally  a  triumphant  liv- 
ing, breathing  portrait  of  her  in  Cleopatra — a 
world's  masterpiece.  Lady  Macbeth  is  a  mere 
sketch  of  her  imperious  strength  and  self  will: 
Goneril  a  slight  copy  of  Lady  Macbeth,  with  lust 
added. 

This  woman  dominated  all  Shakespeare's  ma- 
turity from  1597  to  1608,  and  changed  him,  as 
I  have  said  elsewhere,  from  a  light-hearted  writer 


Introduction 

of  comedies,  histories  and  songs  into  the  greatest 
man  who  has  left  record  of  himself  in  literature, 
the  author  of  half-a-dozen  masterpieces,  whose 
names  have  become  tragic  symbols  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  humanity. 

In  1608  Mary  Fitton  married  for  the  second 
time  and  left  the  Court  and  Shakespeare  for 
ever.  Her  desertion,  and  if  you  will,  the  pas- 
sionate devotion  of  twelve  years  to  her  earthy- 
coarse  service  had  broken  down  Shakespeare's 
health.  In  1608,  too,  his  mother  died,  and  he 
returned  for  a  year  or  so  to  village  Stratford  to 
recover  some  measure  of  health  and  hope. 

He  has  given  us  a  portrait  of  his  mother  in  Vo- 
lumnia,  the  mother  of  Coriolanus;  has  told  us  in 
the  play  that  she  was  the  confidante  of  his  youth : 
that  he  owed  her  more  than  any  other  man  owed 
his  mother:  she  was  always  to  him  "  the  noblest 
mother  of  the  world." 

Shakespeare  spent  a  good  part  of  the  six  or 
seven  remaining  years  of  his  life  in  Stratford: 
he  was  nursed  out  of  weakness  and  despair  and 
coaxed  back  to  "fortitude"  by  his  .younger 
daughter  Judith,  who  was  an  "angel"  to  him; 
her  modesty,  purity  and  tenderness  made  a  pro- 
found impression  on  the  passion-worn  poet. 

He  has  left  us  portraits  of  her  in  Marina,  Prr- 
xii 


Introduction 

dita  and  Miranda — soul-sketches  which  show  his 
idealizing  tendency  and  his  exquisite  poetic  gift, 
and  which  also  discover  in  their  slightness  and 
spirituality,  his  alarming  physical  weakness. 

His  increasing  frailty  induced  him,  he  tells  us, 
to  hasten  by  a  year  the  writing  of  The  Tempest, 
his  testament  and  legacy,  as  he  meant  it  to  be, 
to  the  English  people :  a  masterpiece  which  con- 
tains the  divinest  poetry  and  some  of  the  noblest 
teaching  in  the  language. 

The  immortal  significance  of  Shakespeare's 
life  to  me,  the  history  of  his  soul  is  the  story  of 
his  love  for  the  imperious  gypsy-wanton  Mary 
Fitton.  Till  he  met  her  at  thirty-two  he  knew 
little  of  life  and  less  of  women:  through  her  he 
came  to  knowledge  of  both  and..to  jnuch  self- 
knowledge.  There  is  nothing  in  all  literature 
more  enthralling,  nothing  more  instructive  than 
the  flame-like  growth  of  Shakespeare's  soul  in  the 
"  madding  fever  '^  of  passion. 

The  conception  of  passion  as  a  forcing-house 
of  talent  is  new  to  literature  and  altogether  for- 
eign to  the  English  mind;  it  is  probably  set  forth 
here  for  the  first  time:  yet  Shakespeare  himself 
is  one  of  the  best  examples  of  the  truth.  When 
he  first  met  his  mistress  his  desire  of  her  was 
stronger  than  his  affection :  he  asked  more  than  he 


Introduction 

gave,  and  naturally  suffered  a  martyrdom.  But 
there  was  a  fount  of  love  In  him  and  for  twelve 
years  he  lived  intensely,  now  In  the  seventh 
heaven  of  delight,  now  In  the  lowest  hell  of  jeaj- 
ousy,  rage  and  humiliation.  All  the  experiences 
of  joy  and  sorrow  he  turned  to  soul-profit:  pain 
taught^jnm  pity  [Joy  taught  him  lovingklndness 
and  goodwlllj  sufferings  syjiipathy;  and  If  he  had 
had  a  little  more  faith^  faith  In  himself  or  In  his 
love,  he  would  have  wo^n  to  his  heart's  desire,  and 
written  the  first  love-song  of  the  modern  world.. 
This  was  not  to  be:  he  saw  that  he  had  failed, 
fallen  short  of  the  highest  and  In  this  wild  re- 
morseful mood,  gave  us  his  own  epitaph  by  the 
mouth  of  Wolsey  In  Henry  VIII.: 

...  all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  for  ever: 
No  sun  shall  ever  usher  forth  mine  honours, 
Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
Upon  my  smiles.     Go,  get  thee  from  me,  Cromwell; 
I  am  a  poor  fall'n  man  ... 

But  this  Is  not  the  whole  truth  about  Shake- 
speare, not  even  the  best  part  of  the  truth.  Again 
and  again,  especially  In  Hamlet  and  In  the  Son- 
nets he  shows  an  astonishing  preoccupation  about 
his  epitaph;  about  what  will  be  said  of  him  after 
he  has  left  the  stage  and  passed  Into  the  silenre. 

xiv 


Introduction 

He  need  have  had  no  anxiety;  th^**  poor  fallen 
man  "  gave  us  The  Tempest,  and  his  own  tri- 
umphant words  In  Antony  and  Cleopatra  shall 
live  In  everlasting  memory  of  him : 


'A  rarer  spirit  never 
Did  steer  humanity  .  .  . 


For  all  deductions  made,  this  Shakespeare  ac- 
complished more  than  any  other  man,  went 
deeper  Into  hell  and  rose  higher  Into  heaven  than 
any  other  mortal,  and  what  he  was  and  how"  he 
suffered  and  enjoyed  he  has  told  us  In  great  pic- 
tures flamed  out  on  the  black  walls  of  our  earth- 
prison  for  ever,  and  his  joy  of  living  and  his  "  hell 
of  time  "  have  become  to  us  a  pillar  of  cloud  by 
day,  and  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night  to  warn  and  to 
guide. 

I  have  tried  to  read  the  entrancing  story  with 
"  love's  fine  wit,"  and  to  set  It  all  down  with  af- 
fectionate solicitude,  moved  only  by  that  spirit  of 
truth  which  reveals  and  renews  like  sunlight. 

Like  a  botanist,  I  have  put  the  whole  plant  to 
view:  flower  and  fruit,  leaves  and  stalk  and  roots. 
Some  common  clay  still  clings  to  the  white  nerve- 
fibres  and  exhales  a  faint  odour  of  mortality:  but 
this  is  transmuted  in  the  flower  Into  perfume,  and 


Introdiictiori 

the  fruit  Is  Incomparable,  the  finest  from  the  Tree 
of  Life. 

This  book  not  only  rounds  out  my  work  on 
Shakespeare,  but  It  establishes  for  the  first  time 
his  right  to  be  considered  the  author  of  half  a 
dozen  plays  or  portions  of  plays  which  have  been 
ascribed  to  other  hands,  known  and  unknown,  by 
all  the  commentators.  It  will  be  noticed  that  In 
many  cases  it  Is  my  reading  of  his  character  and 
of  his  life  which  has  enabled  me  to  recognize  with 
certainty  the  ha'nd  of  the  master.  This  new 
proof  that  my  conception  of  Shakespeare  Is  In 
the  main  correct  must  surely  be  conclusive. 

One  question  and  one  reproach  I  shall  not 
escape:  I  have  criticized  my  critics  In  my  books  at 
some  length;  taken  some  pains  to  place  what  Is 
called  "  the  best  knowledge  of  my  time  "  as  the 
dark  background  of  my  picture.  My  friends 
wonder  whether  this  were  wise  on  my  part: 
''  why  lend  the  unimportant,  significance,  and  give 
to  the  ephemeral,  length  of  days?"  they  ask. 
My  enemies,  on  the  other  hand,  pretend  to  be  de- 
lighted— "  he  cries  out,  therefore  he's  hurt,"  they 
opine  smiling. 

These  arguments  hardly  exhaust  the  subject. 
There  are,  It  seems  to  me,  two  great  traditions 
on  this  matter,  contradictory  traditions:  the  one 


Introduction 

coming  from  Dante,  the  other  from  Shakespeare 
or  even  perhaps  from  a  higher  source.  Dante  dis- 
tributed his  enemies  conscientiously  In  this  or  that 
circle  of  Hell,  catching  them  by  the  hair,  as 
Browning  phrased  it,  and  writing  their  real  names 
in  letters  of  fire  on  their  foreheads  for  ever. 

Shakespeare  Is  supposed  to  have  passed  over 
his  critics  without  a  word,  holding  himself  god- 
like above  slander  and  Insult. '  This  Idea  about 
Shakespeare  Is  mistaken.  He  told  the  truth,  I 
believe,  about  Chapman  in  the  Sonnets:  praised 
"  the  proud  full  sail  of  his  great  verse  "  while 
hinting  that  his  heavy  learning  wanted  stronger 
wings  to  lift  it  from  the  ground:  and  when  he 
talked  of  Ajax  as  "  a  gouty  Briareys  ...  a  pur- 
blind Argus  with  a  hundred  eyes  and  no  sight," 
I  feel  sure  he  was  picturing  Ben  Jonson  and 
thereby  answering  Jonson's  unfair  and  envious 
carping  with  more  sincerity  than  sympathy. 

Shakespeare  was  kindlier  and  wiser  than 
Dante :  he  did  not  pursue  his  enemies  or  nail  them 
up  as  vermin  on  some  great  page  to  eternal  loath- 
ing; but  now  and  then  he  did  lift  the  dark  Time- 
curtain  and  show  them  to  us  in  their  habit  as  they 
lived. 

The  best  modern  view  of  this  matter  is  higher 
than  Dante's  or  Shakespeare's;  curiously  enough 

xvii 


Introduction 

it  nears  the  Christian  position:  "go  on  produc- 
ing," one  says,  "  like  the  earth,  harvest  on  har- 
vest and  let  your  fruits  speak  for  you.  Don't 
waste  time  and  temper  answering  the  fool  and 
the  envious:  all  that  is  personal  and  transitory, 
and  the  artist  should  be  intent  on  the  enduring." 

That  is  surely  the  right  temper  of  soul;  but 
it  is  hardly  fair  to  the  fool  and  to  the  envious: 
they,  too,  have  their  place  in  life,  and  they  supply 
the  necessary  realistic  details  of  ugliness  and  ig- 
norance— the  black  shadows — to  the  picture. 

How  far  they  should  be  used  depends  on  the 
nature  of  the  picture,  and  must  be  left  to  the 
artist.  One  general  rule,  however,  holds  of 
necessity  for  the  starfinder  as  for  the  faultfinder: 
in  measure  as  the  lights  are  high,  the  shadows 
will  be  dark. 

If,  indeed,  the  artist  is  one  of  God's  spies,  and 
has  given  himself  in  all  reverence  to  what  Cole- 
ridge called  "  the  awful  task  "  of  unveiling  the 
mystery  of  things  with  a  passionate  determination 
to  discover  and  reveal  the  truth  at  any  cost,  he 
must  expect  the  pillory,  at  least:  he  will  be  the 
cockshy  of  journalists  and  professors  for  a  sea- 
son amid  the  pleased  laughter  of  the  crowd.  If 
he  takes  any  hurt  from  the  mouldy  cabbages  of 
pedantry  or  the  rotten  eggs  of  envy,  he  should 

xvlii 


Introduction 

console  himself  wi<"h  the  knowledge  that  his  pain 
will  be  in  proportion  to  his  own  ignorance  and 
malice.  It  is  not  given  to  man  to  injure  the  im- 
mortal. 

Frank  Harris. 


CHAPTER    I 

TAMORA:    MARGARET:   JOAN   OF    ARC 

TN  his  famous  Introduction  to  La  Comedie  Hu- 
maine  Balzac  puts  his  finger  on  the  weakest 
spot  In  English  literature.  He  Is  astonished  that 
Scott,  who  paints  men  so  bravely  and  has  left 
such  excelling  portraits  as  Balfour  of  Burleigh 
and  Caleb  Balderstone  should  have  painted 
women  so  feebly — presenting  them  as  the 
skimmed  milk,  so  to  speak,  of  humanity. 

He  explains  the  fact  by  the  upas-like  influence 
of  Puritanism  which  he  compares  to  its  disad- 
vantage with  Catholicism.  Balzac  might  have 
gone  a  step  farther  back,  one  fancies,  and  traced 
the  peculiarities  of  the  creed  to  racial  character- 
istics. Tacitus  was  the  first  to  notice  the  extraor- 
dinary chastity  of  the  Germanic  peoples;  he  was 
surprised  by  the  value  they  put  upon  this  virtue. 
It  is  this  hardness  in  the  German  paste,  this  dis- 
like to  yield  to  "  languishing  love  "  which  is  re- 
sponsible, I  imagine,  for  the  paucity  and  poverty 

1 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

of  women-portraits  in  German  and  English  liter- 
ature. The  most  representative  English  novel, 
and  one  of  the  greatest,  Robinson  Crusoe,  has  no 
love  in  it  whatever;  it  is  of  adventurous  daring 
and  practical  details  all  compact,  and  one  can 
hardly  think  of  our  typical  English  heroines,  the 
blameless,  bloodless  Eves,  Amelias,  Sophies, 
Amys,  and  Maggies  without  a  smile.  Becky 
Sharp  even  is  sacrificed  to  the  author's  puritan- 
ism;  the  green-eyed  courtesan  is  depicted  without 
a  soul  and  so  remains  a  superb  caricature.  In 
no  other  literature  would  poets  like  Milton, 
Byron,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge  have  passed 
through  life  without  leaving  a  single  woman's 
portrait  worth  remembering. 

It  is  curious,  too,  that  only  the  greatest  in  Ger- 
man literature  has  painted  a  woman  with  any  in- 
timate understanding:  Goethe's  Gretchen  is  a 
masterpiece,  and  his  Mignon  is  at  least  a  fine  at- 
tempt to  realize  a  still  higher  ideal.  It  will  be 
of  interest  to  consider  what  Shakespeare  has  done 
in  this  field,  and  judge  whether  his  portraits  of 
women  are  worthy  to  rank  with  Manon  Lescaut, 
and  Madame  Bovary,  Gretchen,  and  Francesca. 
Our  home  critics,  of  course,  put  him  above  com- 
pare, and  will  rattle  you  off  the  names  of  a 
dozen  Rosalinds,  Perditas  and  Imogens  with  end- 


T amor  a:  Margaret:  Joan  of  Arc 

less  strings  of  laudatory  epithets;  but  beautiful 
names  cannot  always  stand  for  portraits,  nor 
praise  for  critical  appreciation,  and  It  may  be 
worth  while  once  to  test  the  matter  scrupulously, 
for  a  study  of  it  will  certainly  throw  an  Intense 
light  on  Shakespeare's  mind  and  growth. 

In  the  course  of  these  essays  It  will  be  seen 
whether  the  view  of  Shakespeare's  nature  which 
I  have  put  forth  In  my  book  The  Man  Shake- 
speare Is  corroborated  or  w^eakened,  whether  the 
Incidents  of  his  life  which  I  have  accepted  as  true 
are  further  established  or  thrown  Into  doubt,  and 
above  all  It  must  now  become  clear  whether  I  am 
trying  to  bend  stubborn  truths  to  fit  a  fantastic 
theory,  as  my  opponents  contend,  or  whether,  hav- 
ing caught  a  glimpse  of  the  truth  or  deduced  It  al- 
most unconsciously  from  a  thousand  facts,  I  now 
find  on  further  examination  hundreds  of  other 
facts  springing  up  on  all  sides  to  buttress  and 
confirm  It. 

If  we  can  judge  Shakespeare  at  all  by  his  first 
work,  by  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  It  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  he  started  life  with  a  most  generous 
endowment  of  sensuality,  and  If  we  are  to  believe 
tradition,  and  all  tradition  concurs  on  this  point, 
he  was  himself,  not  only  handsome  and  well- 
shaped,  but  very  gentle  and  courteous  with  most 


The  fVomen   of  SJiakespeare 

ingratiating  manners,  likely,  therefore,  to  love 
women  and  be  loved  by  them.  Because  I  have 
made  this  statement  elsewhere,  I  have  been  ac- 
cused of  blasphemy  and  vilification  in  reputable 
English  journals.  Shakespeare's  sensuality,  it 
appears,  is  all  of  my  seeing,  a  figment  of  my  dis- 
eased imagining. 

One  rubs  one's  eyes  and  wonders  if  these  critics 
have  ever  read  Venus  and  Adonis:  it  is  the  most 
passionate  love-song  in  the  language;  more  in- 
tense even  than  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Leander; 
more  sensual  than  the  most  sensual  verse  of 
Swinburne;  bare  lust  is  pictured  in  it  with  greater 
detail  and  keener  delight  than  in  any  other  Eng- 
lish poem. 

Take  the  following  passage: 

Now  quick  desire  hath  caught  the  yielding  prey. 

And  glutton-like  she  feeds,  yet  never  filleth; 

Her  lips  are  conquerors,  his  lips  obey. 

Paying  what  ransom  the  insulter  willeth; 

Whose  vulture  thought  doth  pitch  the  price  so  high, 
That  she  will  draw  his  lips'  rich  treasure  dry: 

And  having  felt  the  sweetness  of  the  spoil 

With  blindfold  fury  she  begins  to  forage; 

Her   face   doth   reek   and   smoke,  her   blood   doth   boil. 

And  careless  lust  stirs  up  a  desperate  courage.  .  .  . 

Venus  and  Adonis  was  immediately  popular: 
it   ran  through   edition   after   edition,    and  gave 

4. 


T amor  a:  Margaret:  ^oan  oj  Arc 

Shakespeare  position  as  a  poet.  Its  astonishing 
success  serves  to  depict  the  age.  "  It  was  the  joy 
of  young  lovers,"  we  are  told:  "  Pupillus  "  in 
The  Noble  Stranger  wanted  it  *'  to  court  his  mis- 
tress by."  *  A  severer  criticism,  however,  made 
itself  heard:  one  wished  to  see  Shakespeare's 
sweet  verse  with  its  "  heart-throbbing  life  "  ap- 
plied to  "a  graver  subject":  another,  like  Ga- 
briel Harvey,  turned  from  the  Venus  and  Adonis 
m  which  *'  the  younger  sort  take  much  delight  " 
to  Liicrece. 

The  curious  thing  is  that  Shakespeare's  next 
poem.  The  Rape  of  Lucrece,  first  published  in 
the  following  year,  1594,  though  praised  at  the 
time  as  both  "  sweet  and  chaste,"  is  every  whit 
as  passionately  conceived  as  Venus  and  Adonis. 
The  rape  is  imagined  as  nakedly  in  the  chaste 
poem  and  with  the  same  lingering  enjoyment  as 
is  shown  in  the  wooing  of  Venus  in  the  love-song. 
English  critics  would  be  put  to  it  to  explain  this; 
but  they  prefer  to  believe  that  a  man  can  outdo 
all  others  in  picturing  sensuality  without  being 
himself  sensual.      It  is  my  "  assumption,"   they 

*  Venus  and  Adonis  was  like  those  books  which  Horace 
says  were  to  be  found  under  the  silk  cushions  of  the  Roman 
ladies: 

Nee  non  libelli  stoici  inter  sericos 

Jacerc  pulvillos  amant. 

5 


The  JVomen  of  SJiakespeare 

maintain,  that  the  qualities  seen  in  the  painting 
must  of  necessity  exist  in  the  painter. 

Shakespeare  called  Fcjius  and  Adonis  *'  the 
first  heir  of  my  Invention."  Professor  Herford, 
who  has  edited  the  Ev^ersley  edition  which  I  hap- 
pen to  have  under  my  hand  at  the  moment,  de- 
clares that  he  ''  probably  meant  that  It  was  his 
first  lyrical  or  narrative  poem,  and  not  that  It 
preceded  all  his  plays."  I  prefer  to  take  Shake- 
speare's plain  words  and  abide  by  them.  Venus 
and  Adonis  was  first  published  In  1593;  but  may 
have  been  written  some  years  before.  The  real- 
istic pictures  In  It  of  the  hare  and  the  horse  call 
up  the  English  country-side  very  vividly,  and  If  I 
am  not  able  without  reserve  to  uphold  Cole- 
ridge's belief  that  Shakespeare  wrote  It  "  In  the 
country  "  before  coming  to  London,  still  the  con- 
jecture has  a  good  deal  to  say  for  Itself.  In 
1590  the  first  Instalment  of  The  Faerie  Queen 
appeared  and  Lodge's  Glauciis  and  Silla,  which 
was  written  In  the  same  six-line  stanza  as  Venus 
and  Adonis  with  alteration  of  quatrain  and  coup- 
let. It  seems  to  me  probable  that  Shakespeare 
took  the  form  at  least  of  his  poem  from  Lodge. 
Rhymed  verse  was  the  poetic  fashion  and  Shake- 
peare  used  It;  but  he  never  moved  freely  In  it, 
much  less   as   a   master  calling   forth   Its   latent 

6 


Tamora:  Margaret:  Joan   oj  Arc 

capacities  of  music  and  emphasis.  Still  Coleridge 
had  reason  perhaps  to  remind  us  that  Venus  and 
Adonis  is  full  of  memories  of  Shakespeare's  early 
life  in  Stratford. 

I  suggested  in  The  Man  Shakespeare  that  this 
passionate  picture  of  an  older  woman  loving  and 
tempting  a  "  tender  boy  "  contains  in  it  some- 
thing more  than  a  side-glance  at  Shakespeare's 
enforced  marriage  with  an  older  woman.  It 
seems  probable  to  me  that  young  Shakespeare  was 
not  unwilling  to  excite  the  sympathy  or  pity  of  his 
high-born  London  friends  with  this  picture  of  his 
misled  youth.  It  explained  his  untimely  marriage 
and  the  fact,  too,  that  he  had  left  his  wife  in 
Stratford,  and  would  not  bring  her  to  London. 

I  must  just  note  in  passing  that  neither  the  lust- 
ful queen  of  love  nor  the  chaste  matron  Lucrece 
lives  for  us  in  Shakespeare's  verse  with  any  In- 
dividual life.  The  poems  are  companion  pictures 
of  passion  and  not  portraits  of  women. 

In  order  to  trace  Shakespeare's  growth  from 
the  beginning,  I  am  compelled  to  consider  his 
earliest  works,  Titus  Andronicus  and  the  First 
Part  of  King  Henry  VI.,  and  again  I  find  myself 
at  variance  with  the  professors.  I  have  given 
some  reasons  already  for  thinking  that  much  of 
Titus  Andronicus   was  written  by  Shakespeare; 

7 


The  Women   of  Shakespeare 

the  professors  do  not  agree  with  me,  and  the 
point  is  hardly  worth  further  debate  here;  for  I 
hope  to  handle  the  question  at  length  some  time 
or  other,  and  for  my  present  purpose  it  is  suffi- 
cient to  remark  that  Tamora  is  a  mere  fiend,  and 
that  Lavinia  has  no  nearer  relation  to  woman- 
hood than  her  name. 

I  have  also  stated  that  much  of  the  First  Part 
of  Henry  VI.  is  certainly  Shakespeare's;  in  fact, 
that  "  he  wrote  more  than  we,  who  have  his  ma- 
ture work  in  mind  are  inclined  to  ascribe  to  him," 
and  this  I  must  now  endeavour  to  prove,  for  this 
play  marks  a  moment  in  Shakespeare's  growth 
and  is  therefore  necessary  to  my  argument,  and 
all  the  professor-mandarins  are  here  leagued  in 
battle  against  me.  I  must,  therefore,  clear  the 
way  a  little  before  I  go  any  further. 

Were  there  no  other  reasons  for  attributing 
the  First  Fart  of  Henry  VI.  to  Shakespeare,  I 
should  be  inclined  to  follow  the  first  editors, 
Hemyng  and  Condell,  who  included  it  with  Titus 
Andronicus  in  their  First  Folio  of  1623,  for  I 
am  fain  to  believe  that  those  two  men  who  played 
on  the  same  stage  with  Shakespeare  for  many 
years  must  have  known  his  work  intimately. 
They  were  honest,  too ;  scrupulous  even,  as  Eng- 
lishmen are  apt  to  be,  and  erred  on  the  right  side 

8 


T amor  a:  Margaret:  Joan  of  Arc 

perhaps  by  refusing  to  include  in  the  First  Folio 
anything  that  was  not  undoubtedly  his.  They  left 
out  at  least  one  play  which  he  had  certainly 
touched  up  and  bettered,  The  Two  Noble  Kins- 
men; but  they  published  nothing  that  did  not  in 
the  main  belong  to  him.  In  case  of  doubt,  there- 
fore, it  will  be  well  to  follow  their  authority. 

A  little  consideration  of  the  First  Part  of 
Henry  VI.  will  show  precisely  the  professors' 
procedure  and  what  it  is  worth.  "  The  view 
that  /.  Henry  VI.  was  wholly  the  work  of  Shake- 
speare," says  Professor  Herford,  "  is  now  prob- 
ably extinct  In  England,"  though  "  It  is  still  or- 
thodox In  Germany."  He  goes  on:  "The  First 
Part  clearly  stands  apart  from  the  other  two 
...  It  contains  a  far  larger  mass  of  utterly  un- 
Shakespearean  work."*  The  professor's  drastic- 
bold  statement  derives  from  the  fact  that  Cole- 
ridge asserted  that  part  of  the  first  scene  of  the 
first  act  of  this  First  Part  was  not  written  by 
Shakespeare,  and  consequently  the  professors 
bettering  the  hint  are  all  contemptuous  in  their 
rejection  of  "  the  greater  part  "  of  the  play. 
Now  we  can  kick  the  Germans,  they  say,  and  pro- 
ceed to  kick.  But  all  good  readers  have  been 
compelled  to  accept  as  Shakespeare's  at  least  two 
scenes,  the  dispute  In  the  Temple  Gardens  about 

9 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

the  roses  and  the  wooing  of  Margaret  by  Suf- 
folk. Mr.  Swinburne  Insisted  that  the  last  battle 
and  death  of  Talbot  was  just  as  undoubtedly 
Shakespeare's.  He  went  on,  however,  to  cast 
some  doubt  on  the  courtship  of  Margaret  by 
Suffolk:  "This  latter.  Indeed,  full  as  It  Is  of 
natural  and  vivid  grace,  may  not  perhaps  be 
beyond  the  reach  of  one  or  two  among  the 
rivals  of  his  (Shakespeare's)  earliest  years  of 
work." 

^^^^ow  the  professors  have  nothing  to  do  but 
register  these  authoritative  opinions.  Not  one 
of  them  has  ever  cast  a  ray  of  light  on  any  such 
disputed  point.  They  are  there  to  teach  stu- 
dents the  best  that  Is  known  on  the  subject;  but 
they  can  hardly  be  expected  to  add  to  the  sum 
ot  human  knowledge.  That  requires  other  and 
higher  qualities  than  are  given  to  the  bookworm. 
But  what  are  they  to  do  about  doubtful  pas- 
sages, It  may  be  asked,  when  their  authorities 
differ?  They  should  record  the  difference  and 
leave  It  at  that;  but  they  will  obtrude  their  own 
limitations;  they  try  to  show  off  and  usually 
come  to  grief.  For  example,  Professor  Her- 
ford  In  this  dilemma,  seeing  that  the  wooing  of 
Margaret  Is  "  so  oddly  diapered  In  the  last  act 
with  the   end  of  Joan;  .   .   ."   decides  that   "it 

10 


Tamora:  Margaret:  Joan  of  Arc 

has  very  little  title  to  be  considered  Shake- 
speare's work."  After  much  experience  of  such 
ex  cathedra  assertions  one  Is  inclined  to  say, 
"  Well  roared,  Bottom,"  and  pay  no  further 
heed;  for  professor  echoes  professor  as  shallow 
sings  to  shallow;  but  it  Is  Imperative  to  notice 
an  opinion  of  Swinburne.  One  word  of  Swin- 
burne or  Coleridge  on  such  a  point  is  worth  all 
the  pronouncements  of  all  the  professors  since 
the  flood;  for  the  poets  have  imaginative  sym- 
pathy to  guide  them  and  the  professors  are  with- 
out such  light.  In  this  instance,  however,  the 
professors  parrot  Swinburne,  though  Swinburne 
Is  mistaken,  and  the  motive  which  misled  him  Is 
at  hand.  If  he  accepted  the  wooing  of  Mar- 
garet by  Suffolk  which  precedes  and  follows  the 
scene  wherein  Joan  of  Arc  Is  libelled  as  never 
woman  was  libelled  before  or  since  by  a  poet,  he 
would  be  almost  compelled  to  ascribe  the  libel  to 
Shakespeare,  and  this  was  too  much  for  his  pa- 
triotism. "  That  damnable  last  scene,"  he  says, 
"  at  which  the  gorge  rises  even  to  remember  It, 
is  in  execution  as  unlike  the  crudest  phase  of 
Shakespeare's  style  as  in  conception  it  is  unlike 
the  Idlest  birth  of  his  spirit."  This  Is  very 
strongly  put;  but  sweeping  rhetorical  statements 
carry  little  conviction.     Let  us  bring  the  matter 

11 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

to  proof,  and  first  let  us  consider  the  wooing. 
When  Suffolk  sees  Margaret  he  cries: 

Oh,  fairest  beauty,  do  not  fear  nor  fly! 
For  I  will  touch  thee  but  with  reverent  hands; 
I  kiss  these  fingers  for  eternal  peace. 
And  lay  them  gently  on  thy  tender  side. 
Who  art  thou?  say,  that  I  may  honour  thee. 

Surely  this  Is  Shakespeare;  young  Shakespeare 
at  his  best :  a  moment  later  Suffolk  exclaims : 

Be  not  offended,  nature's  miracle, 

and  all  doubt  vanishes;  this  Is  Shakespeare's 
very  voice;  no  one  before  him  or  since  wrote  like 
that,  and  the  whole  scene  Is  stamped  with  the 
same  seal. 

And  later  (scene  v.)  when  Suffolk  goes  on  to 
praise  Margaret  to  the  king,  one  cannot  but  hear 
Shakespeare's  accent,  his  favourite  words,  his 
bookish  Illustrations,  everything: 

SuF.    Tush,  my  good  lord,  this  superficial  tale 
Is  but  a  preface  of  her  worthy  praise; 
The  chief  perfections  of  that  lovely  dame. 
Had  I  sufficient  skill  to  utter  them. 
Would  make  a  volume  of  enticing  lines, 
Able  to  ravish  any  dull  conceit: 
And,  which  is  more,  she  is  not  so  divine. 
So  full-replete  with  choice  of  all  delights. 
But  with  as  humble  lowliness  of  mind 
She  is  content  to  be  at  your  command; 
Command,  I  mean,  of  virtuous  chaste  intents. 
To  love  and  honour  Henry  as  her  lord. 
12 


Tamora:  Margaret:  Joan  oj  Arc 

I  have  put  the  two  most  intimate  and  perma- 
nently characteristic  lines  in  italics  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  professors  and  those  who  don't  know 
much  about  Shakespeare;  but  the  whole  scene  is 
just  as  indubitably  his  in  spite  of  Swinburne. 

Shakespeare's  work  in  this  First  Fart  is  not 
confined  to  the  scenes  already  mentioned.  In  my 
book,  The  Man  Shakespeare^  I  state :  '*  It  would 
be  easy  to  prove  that  much  of  what  the  dying 
Mortimer  says  is  just  as  certainly  Shakespeare's 
work  as  any  of  the  passages  referred  to  by  Mr. 
Swinburne."    Now  for  the  proof. 

Act  ii.  scene  5.     Enter  Mortimer,  brought  in  a  chair, 
and  Gaolers. 

MoR.  Kind  keepers  of  my  weak  decaying  age, 
Let  dying  Mortimer  here  rest  himself. 
Even  like  a  man  new  haled  from  the  rack, 
So  fare  my  limbs  with  long  imprisonment; 
And  these  grey  locks,  the  pursuivants  of  death, 
Nestor-like  aged  in  an  age  of  care. 
Argue  the  end  of  Edmund  Mortimer. 
These  eyes,  like  lamps  whose  wasting  oil  is  spent. 
Wax  dim,  as  drawing  to  their  exigent.   .  .   . 

One  hears  Shakespeare  in  every  word;  but  if 
any  one  can  believe  that  the  last  two  lines  were 
written  by  any  other  hand,  he  is  past  my  helping,* 

*  I  may  be  called  upon  to  prove  the  obvious,  and  therefore 
beg  any  would-be  critic  to  notice  that  nearly  twenty  years 
later  Shakespeare  makes  the  dying  Antony  speak  of  the 
"exigent"    (Antony   and   Cleopatra,   Act    iv.   scene    12),    and 

IS 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

and  in  Mortimer's  very  next  speech,  I  hear  the 
master  again  just  as  certainly.  Mortimer  talks 
of  death  as  "  the  arbitrator  of  despairs,"  and 
goes  on :  ^ 

Just  death,  kind  umpire  of  men's  miseries. 

With   sweet   enlargement    doth    dismiss    me   hence  .   .  . 

The  very  words  remind  me  of  Posthumus  and 
his  talk  of  "the  sure  physician  Death  .  .  .  away 
to  liberty." 

A  little  later  Mortimer  tells  his  nephew: 

.   .  .  Thy  uncle  is  removing  hence 

As  princes   do  their  courts,  when  they  are  cloy'd 

With  long  continuance  in  a  settled  place. 

The  whole  scene  Is  not  only  Shakespeare's, 
but  Shakespeare  at  his  most  characteristic;  a 
dying  man  *  Is  as  sure  to  catch  his  sympathy  as 
a  lover,  and  he  delights  In  using  both  as  a  mouth- 
piece of  his  own  feelings. 

The  more  carefully  I  read  this  First  Part, 
the  more  often  I  find  Shakespeare  In  it.     Swln- 

Cleopatra  in  the  very  next  scene  describing  Antony's  death 
says,  "  Our  lamp  is  spent,  it's  out." 

*  Since  writing  the  above  I  have  come  upon  the  fact  that 
this  scene  is  unhistorical:  Edmund  Mortimer  was  not  impris- 
oned, and  died  in  high  office.  Shakespeare  took  the  whole 
scene  from  his  im,agination ;  it  is  therefore  at  once  more 
characteristic  and  more  important  to  us  than  an  incident  which 
he  merely  describes. 

14 


Tamora:  Margaret:  'Joan  of  Arc 

burne  was  more  than  justified  in  ascribing  *'  the 
last  battle  and  death  of  Talbot  "  to  Shakespeare. 
Practically  the  whole  character  of  Talbot  pro- 
claims his  handiwork. 

In  the  third  scene  of  the  second  act,  Talbot 
tells  the  Countess  she  has  entrapped  him  in  vain: 

No,  no,  I  am  but  shadow  of  myself: 
You  are  deceived,  my  substance  is  not  here; 
For  what  you  see  is  but  the  smallest  part 
And  least  proportion  of  humanity.  .  .   . 

Here  surely  Is  the  cunning  of  Shakespeare's 
thought,  clad  In  characteristic  phrase. 

Talbot's  courteous  forglvingness,  too,  Is  just 
as  certainly  the  gentle,  generous  Shakespeare's: 

What  you  have  done  hath  not  offended  me; 
Nor  other  satisfaction  do  I  crave, 
But  only,  with  your  patience,  that  we  may 
Taste  of  your  wine  and  see  what  cates  you  have; 
For  soldiers'  stomachs  always  serve  them  well. 

To  sum  up  briefly,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  the 
first  act  in  which  I  don't  hear  Shakespeare;  but 
almost  from  the  moment  when  Talbot  comes  on 
the  stage  in  the  second  act  to  the  very  end  of  the 
play,  I  find  proof  upon  proof  of  Shakespeare's 
work  on  nearly  every  page.  In  fact,  his  hand  is 
as  plainly  to  be  seen  In  the  last  four  acts  of  this 
First  Part,  as  it  Is  In  the  Second  or  Third  Parts: 

15 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

Talbot  and  Mortimer,  Margaret  and  Suffolk 
are  as  certainly  his  painting  as  the  great  picture 
of  the  gentle  saint  Henry  VI. 

In  depicting  Margaret,  Shakespeare  seems  to 
have  followed  history  closely  in  a  dozen  differ- 
ent scenes.  There  was  no  doubt  a  clear  tradi- 
tion of  her  pride,  courage,  and  high  spirit,  and 
these  are  the  qualities  he  gives  her  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  so  that  she  becomes  In  his  pages 
somewhat  hard  and  wordy  and  wooden,  though 
the  opportunity  offered  Itself  to  him  to  do  better. 
When  her  young  son  Edward  Is  murdered,  she 
could  have  been  pictured  as  breaking  down,  could 
have  been  made  human  for  us  by  some  touch  of 
despairing  sorrow;  but  no!  she  rails  on  with 
dreadful  verbosity  through  scene  after  scene 
and  play  after  play,  till  we  are  relieved  when  she 
disappears  from  the  stage  forever. 

But  If  Shakespeare  copied  history  closely  when 
painting  Margaret,  what  about  Joan  of  Arc? 
Does  he  treat  her  In  the  same  way?  Or  must 
we  accept  the  atrocious  libel  on  her  as  his?  I 
am  afraid  we  must,  for  not  only  Is  it  embedded 
in  what  Is  Indubitably  his  work,  but  the  worst 
part  of  It  Is  just  such  an  Invention  as  would  sug- 
gest itself  to  him.  The  poets  are  all  against  me 
here,  so  I  must  give  my  reasons,  must  consider 

16 


Tamora:  Margaret:  Joan  of  Arc 

carefully  the  whole  of  this  portrait  of  Joan  of 
Arc  If,  indeed,  portrait  It  may  be  called. 

The  painting  of  great  characters  has  this  ad- 
vantage, or  disadvantage  as  the  case  may  be, 
that  every  shortcoming  of  the  painter  will  be  re- 
vealed in  the  portrait;  If  the  mirror  cannot  con- 
tain, or  If  It  distorts  the  object,  its  limitations 
and  faults  must  strike  every  one.  What  Shake- 
speare says  of  himself  in  Sonnet  121 : 

....  they  that  level 
At  my  abuses,  reckon  up  their  own: 

might  well  be  applied  to  all  great  personages, 
and  to  none  more  fitly  than  to  this  heroic  woman. 
Shakespeare  might  have  painted  the  tradi- 
tional Joan  of  Arc  of  Hollnshed  as  he  painted 
the  traditional  Margaret,  and  no  one  would  have 
been  able  to  deduce  much  more  than  youth  from 
his  subservience.  He  began  by  doing  this,  then 
out  of  patriotism  he  went  on  to  idealize  Talbot, 
and  consequently  Is  almost  compelled  to  diminish 
Joan's  triumphs;  he  makes  her  take  Rouen 
(which  was  never  taken,  but  opened  its  gates 
seventeen  years  after  her  death)  by  a  trick  be- 
cause he  wants  to  give  Talbot  the  glory  of  re- 
taking it  by  sheer  English  courage.  He  puts 
down  all  her  successes  to  witchery  and  sorcery, 
as  Hollnshed  did,  and  when  she  Is  captured,  he 

17 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

not  only  repeats  the  usual  libel  on  her  that  she 
pretended  to  be  with  child  by  this  and  that  noble 
in  order  to  prolong  her  life,  but  he  blackens  this  j 
libel  by  a  suggestion  made  in  the  first  act.  When 
the  Dauphin  presses  her  to  marry  him,  Shake- 
speare makes  her  half-promise  to  yield  to  him 
and  talk  of  her  ''recompense,"  and  this  half- 
promise  and  the  desire  of  reward  deepen  the  bad 
impression  made  by  her  pretended  confessions 
in  the  last  act.  But  Shakespeare  is  not  content 
to  prove  that  the  noble  French  girl  is  light  and 
common  and  sordid,  he  absolutely  invents  a 
scene  in  which  she  denies  her  shepherd-father, 
and  asserts  that  she  Is  "  nobly  born  "  for  no  rea- 
son, or  rather  In  defiance  of  reason;  for  he  has  al- 
ready followed  tradition  by  making  Joan  in  the 
first  act  avow  her  parentage.  Here  is  the  astound- 
ing slander  and  self-contradiction.  In  the  first  act, 
speaking  as  the  traditional  pucelle,  Joan  says: 

Dauphin,  I  am  by  birth  a  shepherd's  daughter. 
My  wit  untrain'd  by  any  kind  of  art. 
Heaven  and  our  Lady  gracious  hath  it  pleased 
To  shine  on  my  contemptible  estate. 
Lo,  whilst  I  waited  on  my  tender  lambs 
And  to  sun's  parching  heat  display'd  ray  cheeks, 
God's  mother  deigned  to  appear  to  me 
And  in  a  vision  full  of  majesty 
Will'd  me  to  leave  my  base  vocation 
And  free  my  country  from  calamity. 
18 


Tamora:  Margaret:  Joan  oj  Arc 

This  is  all  natural  enough,  if  not  very  won- 
derful, though  even  here  I  fancy  I  distinguish 
Shakespeare's  voice  particularly  in  the  second, 
third,  and  fourth  lines.  In  the  last  act,  when  her 
father  claims  her,  this  is  how  Joan  talks  to  him: 

Decrepit  miser !  base  ignoble  wretch ! 
I  am  descended  of  a  gentler  blood; 

Thou  art  no  father  nor  no  friend  of  mine. 

And  she  is  made  to  repeat  this  denial  and  this 
foolish  boast  again  and  again. 

This  invention  does  not  surprise  me  in  Shake- 
speare: it  is  all  in  character:  Shakespeare,  for- 
getting the  previous  confession  and  making  Joan 
brag  that  she  is  of  "  nobler  birth  "  and  "  issued 
from  the  progeny  of  kings;  "  it  is,  I  repeat,  all  in 
keeping  and  just  such  a  boast  as  would  first  sug- 
gest itself  to  Shakespeare's  snobbishness.  But 
Swinburne  insists  that  not  only  is  the  execution 
cruder  than  Shakespeare's  style,  but  "  the  concep- 
tion is  unlike  the  idlest  birth  of  his  spirit." 

Now  I  would  not  attribute  the  scene  to  Shake- 
speare, even  in  youth,  if  I  could  help  it,  or  if  it 
stood  alone;  but  it  does  not.  A  dozen  years 
later  he  made  somewhat  the  same  fault  though 
an  infinitely  smaller  one  when  telling  the  story 
of  Othello.  The  Moor  wears  "  the  shadow'd 
livery  of  the  burnish'd  sun,"  is  very  dark  or  black 

19 


The  fFomeri  of  Shakespeare 

in  complexion,  and  so  inferior  to  the  fair  Vene- 
tian aristocrat,  Desdemona,  as  Shakespeare  felt 
himself  inferior  to  the  maid  of  honour  whom  he 
loved.  But  instead  of  leaving  us  with  the  pathos 
of  this  inferiority,  as  soon  as  he  begins  to  write 
about  Othello,  he  makes  him  brag  of  his  "  royal  " 
descent.  Shakespeare's  snobbery  played  havoc 
with  his  art  again  and  again  though  Swinburne 
as  an  Englishman  has  not  noticed  the  blunder- 
ing. 

For  years  I  tried  to  believe  with  the  poets  that 
this  foul  libel  on  one  of  the  noblest  of  women 
was  not  written  by  Shakespeare;  but  from  the  be- 
ginning it  was  clear  to  me  that  he  must  have  seen 
it  and  approved  of  it,  and  gradually  it  became 
manifest  that  he  wrote  in  some  of  the  worst  lines 
of  it  himself.  At  length  I  had  to  yield  to  the 
evidence.  It  is  his,  I  am  afraid,  from  beginning 
to  end.  If  any  one  wishes  to  know  where  Shake- 
speare started  from,  here  is  his  lowest  point. 
This  is  where  he  stood  in  1590  or  thereabouts 
when  twenty-six  years  of  age.  This  is  what  Eng- 
lish patriotism  and  English  snobbishness  had 
done  for  him — his  nadir,  so  to  speak.  How  he 
swung  out  of  it;  in  how  vast  an  orbit,  and  what 
heights  he  reached — that  is  his  story,  and  the 
world's  wonder. 

20 


CHAPTER    II 

HIS  wife:  adriana,  the  scold:  katharina, 

THE  SHREW:  CONSTANCE,  THE  TERMAGANT 

npHE  most  obvious  remark  about  these  early 
plays  is  that  Shakespeare  from  the  very 
beginning  identified  himself  with  the  gentle, 
saintly,  and  unfortunate  characters,  and  so  real- 
ized them  for  us.  The  figure  of  the  dying  Mor- 
timer is  irradiated  by  the  splendour  of  his 
poetry;  the  saintly  Henry  VI.  livei>  for  us  like  a 
portrait  of  Fra  Angelico,  and  when  he  paints  a 
mere  fighting  man  such  as  Talbot,  he  cannot  help 
lending  him  his  own  magnanimous  generosity. 
Even  as  a  youth,  Shakespeare  has  infinitely  more 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  him  than  any 
other  great  poet.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  the 
vile  hard  caricature  of  Joan  of  Arc  is  such  a  blot 
upon  his  work.  He  is  more  like  Marcus  Au- 
relius  than  Goethe  or  Cervantes;  but  even  Mar- 
cus Aurelius  has  not  his  all-pitying  soul,  his 
inexhaustible   sympathy.      One   must  just   notice 

21 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

here,  too,  that  he  Is  saved  from  a  suspicion  of 
mawkishness  by  his  humour;  his  Jack  Cade  Is 
the  first  of  those  inimitable  comic  creations,  of 
whom  Falstaff  is  the  crown  and  king. 

Curiously  enough  in  the  earliest  plays,  Shake- 
speare seems  to  have  known  little  or  nothing 
about  women;  at  least  he  was  unable  to  give 
them  artistic  life.  His  women  were  at  the  best 
historical  or  traditional  lay  figures  such  as  Venus 
and  Lucrece  and  Margaret  and  at  the  worst 
mere  masks  or  libels  on  humanity  like  Tamora 
in  Titus  Andronicus  and  the  Joan  of  Arc — not 
a  living  creature  among  them  all. 

Suddenly  in  the  crowd  of  lifeless  marionettes 
we  catch  the  hot  eyes  of  an  angry  woman;  she 
is  painted  French-wise,  mainly  by  shadows  or 
faults,  and  these  are  repeated  again  and  again 
with  vehement  and  extravagant  exaggeration,  the 
personal  feeling  of  the  painter  showing  itself  in 
every  stroke.  Of  course  I  am  speaking  of  The 
Comedy  of  Errors  and  the  portrait  of  the  jeal- 
ous wife,  Adriana.  At  the  moment,  I  am  not 
concerned  to  determine  whether  The  Comedy  of 
Errors  is  earlier  or  later  than  the  First  Part  of 
King  Henry  VI.  or  Love's  Labour's  Lost.  It 
was  not  revised  later  and  bettered  as  was  Love's 
Labour's   Lost.     It  was  probably  written   soon 

22 


His  Wife:  Scold:  Shrew:  Termagant 

after  1589,  and  Is  certainly  one  of  Shakespeare's 
earliest  works. 

The  sketch  of  Adriana  is  crude  but  vivid;  the 
woman  lives  for  us  indeed,  much  as  The  Second 
Mrs.  Tanqueray  lives  mainly  through  ill-temper. 
Who  is  it?  one  naturally  asks:  who  is  the  jealous 
railing  woman  who  made  such  an  Impression  on 
young  Shakespeare  that  he  cannot  but  paint  her 
and  make  her  live  for  us  by  reason  of  his  very 
hatred?  I  say  it  was  his  wife,  whom  he  had  been 
forced  to  marry  and  the  critics  all  laugh;  nothing 
so  preposterous  has  ever  been  suggested  to  them. 
What  next,  indeed? 

Before  I  go  on  to  prove  that  the  jealous  scold 
Adriana  was  a  picture  of  Shakespeare's  wife, 
and  was  deliberately  intended  by  him  for  a  por- 
trait of  her,  let  me  just  say  that  even  this  is  not 
the  first  time  that  he  has  mentioned  his  forced 
marriage  and  its  unhappy  consequences.  I  have 
already  shown  that  he  Identifies  himself  with  the 
lover  Suffolk  in  the  First  Part  of  King  Henry 
FL,  and  particularly  In  the  courtship  of  Mar- 
garet. 

When  the  lords  oppose  the  choice  of  Margaret 
as  queen,  Suffolk  exclaims : 

A  dower,  my  lords !  disgrace  not  so  your  king, 
That  he  should  be  so  abject,  base  and  poor, 
2S 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

To  choose  for  wealth  and  not  for  perfect  love. 
Henry  is  able  to  enrich  his  queen 
And  not  to  seek  a  queen  to  make  him  rich: 
So  worthless  peasants  bargain  for  their  wives. 
As  market-men  for  oxen^  sheep,  or  horse. 

Marriage  is  a  matter  of  more  worth 
Than  to  be  dealt  in  by  attorneyship; 
Not  whom  we  will,  but  whom  his  grace  affects. 
Must  be  companion  of  his  nuptial  bed: 
And  therefore,  lords,  since  he  aifects  her  most 
It  most  of  all  these  reasons  bindeth  us. 
In  our  opinions  she  should  be  preferr'd. 
For  rvhat  is  wedlock  forced  but  a  hell. 
An  age  of  discord  and  continual  strife? 
Whereas  the  contrary  bringeth  bliss, 
And  is  a  pattern  of  celestial  peace. 

The  first  two  lines  which  I  have  put  in  italics 
cry  for  explanation.  They  must  strike  any  reader 
as  astonishing,  for  they  are  not  in  keeping  with 
the  circumstances;  they  absolutely  destroy  Suf- 
folk's own  argument;  for,  strange  to  say,  Suf- 
folk himself  is  dealing  in  this  very  matter  as  an 
*'  attorney,"  and  stranger  still,  a  little  earlier  in 
scene  3  of  the  same  act,  he  applies  the  very  word 
"  attorney  "  to  himself: 

And  yet,  methinks,  I  could  be  well  content 
To  be  my  own  attorney  in  this  case. 

How  is  this  confusion  to  be  explained?  Only 
in  one  way  so  far  as  I  can  see.  In  youth, 
even   a   Shakespeare   has   not   much   observation 

24 


His  Wije:  Scold:  Shrew:   Termagant 

of  life  with  which  to  stuff  out  his  characters; 
he  is  almost  compelled  to  draw  on  his  own 
experiences,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  his 
experiences  and  their  vivid  emotions  press  for  ut- 
terance. But  even  in  his  earliest  works  Shake- 
speare is  not  apt  to  make  a  lover,  whom  he  uses 
as  a  mouthpiece,  argue  against  himself  save  for 
overpowering  personal  reasons;  his  own  mar- 
riage, we  know,  had  been  forced  on  him  by  the 
attorneyship  of  Anne  Hathaway's  father's  two 
friends,  Fulk  Sandells  and  John  Richardson,  and 
he  could  not  forgive  the  interference.  That  is 
why  marriage  must  not  be  *'  dealt  in  by  attorney- 
ship :  "  why  Suffolk  unconsciously  is  made  to  stul- 
tify himself. 

The  next  passage  marked  in  italics  proves  that 
this  '^  assumption  "  of  mine  is  correct :  Suffolk 
talks  of  "  wedlock  forced "  as  "  but  a  hell " 
though  no  one  but  himself  is  trying  to  force  any 
bride  upon  Henry.  The  truth  is  Shakespeare 
has  identified  himself  with  the  lover  Suffolk  at 
once,  and  he  drags  in  his  own  painful  experience 
though  here  it  is  worse  than  out  of  place :  for  it 
makes  Suffolk  condemn  Suffolk's  action.  Mani- 
festly Shakespeare  is  here  thinking  of  his  own 
"  forced  wedlock  "  which  he  found  to  be  "  a  hell 
— an  age  of  discord  and  continual  strife." 

25 


The  fVotneji  of  Shakespeare 

Now  let  us  consider  whether  these  inferences 
are  confirmed  by  the  portrait  of  Adriana  In  The 
Comedy  of  Errors.  The  first  thing  I  notice  is 
that  the  jealous  "  scolding  "  bitter  wife  is  out  of 
place  in  the  gay  comedy  of  mistaken  Identity;  It 
would  be  In  better  keeping  with  the  spirit  of  the 
play  if  Adriana  were  a  very  loving  and  affection- 
ate creature,  for  then  there  would  be  some  amuse- 
ment in  her  mistaking  the  wrong  Antipholus  for 
her  husband,  and  lavishing  caresses  on  the  wrong 
man.  Still,  the  critics  are  obdurate;  they  can  de- 
duce nothing  from  the  dramatist's  bad  work. 
But  to  the  fair-minded  reader  my  inference 
(which  alone  explains  the  faulty  facts)  must 
create  at  least  a  suspicion;  and  now  for  further 
evidence.  Almost  the  only  thing  we  know  cer- 
tainly about  Shakespeare's  wife  Is  that  she  was 
eight  years  older  than  he  was.  This  peculiar  trait 
has  nothing  to  do  with  Adriana;  moreover,  It  Is 
the  very  last  thing  a  jealous  scolding  woman  would 
tell  about  herself;  in  the  play  It  weakens  her  ap- 
peal; and  yet  Shakespeare  makes  Adriana  tell  It. 
In  spite  of  this  some  English  critics  pooh-pooh 
what  they  persist  In  calling  my  ''  assumption."  If 
we  knew  that  Shakespeare's  wife  squinted  and 
Adriana  admitted  that  she  had  a  cast  in  her  eye 
and  deplored  the  fact,  these  gentry  would  still  say 

26 


His   Wije:  Scold:  Shrew:   Termagant 

that  the  simple  identification  was  a  chance  coin- 
cidence. 

At  the  risk  of  explaining  the  obvious,  I  shall 
accumulate  proof  on  proof,  warning  my  antago- 
nists at  the  same  time  that  there  are  many  more 
weapons  still  unused  in  the  armoury.  For  truth 
has  a  strange  power  of  calling  up  evidence  to  its 
support  and  there  is  some  danger  that  in  this  field 
even  I,  a  hundred  years  hence,  may  be  regarded 
as  an  authority,  and  so  in  turn  become,  dread 
thought!  food  for  the  professors! 

I  shall  transcribe  a  couple  of  scenes  where 
Adriana  figures  and  ask  my  readers  to  notice 
first  of  all  the  difference  between  Shakespeare's 
painting  of  Adriana  and  her  sister.  Adriana  is 
introduced  to  us  J||^  fretting  because  her  husband 
does  not  return  home,  an4  her  sister  advises  pa- 
tience. 

Adr.  Neither  my  husband  nor  the  slave  return'd. 
That  in  such  haste  I  sent  to  seek  his  master ! 
Sure,  Luciana,  it  is  two  o'clock. 

Luc.  Perhaps  some  merchant  hath  invited  him 

And  from  the  mart  he's  somewhere  gone  to  dinner. 

Good  sister,  let  us  dine  and  never  fret: 

A  man  is  master  of  his  liberty: 

Time  is  their  master,  and  when  they  see  time 

They'll  go  or  come;  if  so,  be  patient,  sister. 

Adr.  Why  should  their  liberty  than  ours  be  more? 

Luc.  Because  their  business  still  lies  out  o'  door. 

Adr.  Look,  when  I  serve  him  so,  he  takes  it  ill. 

27 


The  fVomen  oj  Shakespeare 

Luc.  O,  know  he  is  the  bridle  of  your  will. 

Adr.  There's  none  but  asses  will  be  bridled  so. 

Luc.  Why,  headstrong  liberty  is  lash'd  with  woe. 
There's  nothing  situate  under  heaven's  eye 
But  hath  his  bound,  in  earth,  in  sea,  in  sky: 
The  beasts,  the  fishes  and  the  winged  fowls. 
Are  their  males'  subjects  and  at  their  controls: 
Men,  more  divine,  the  masters  of  all  these. 
Lords  of  the  wide  world  and  wild  watery  seas^ 
Indu'd  with  intellectual  sense  and  souls. 
Of  more  pre-eminence  than  fish  and  fowls. 
Are  masters  to  their  females,  and  their  lords: 
Then  let  your  will  attend  on  their  accords. 

Adr.  This  servitude  makes  you  to  keep  unwed. 

Luc.  Not  this,  but  troubles  of  the  marriage-bed. 

Adr.   But,  were  you  wedded,  you  would  bear  some  sway. 

Luc.  Ere  I  learn  love,  I'll  practise  to  obey. 

Adr.   How  if  your  husband  start  some  other  where? 

Luc.  Till  he  come  home  again,  I  would  forbear.  .  .  . 

And  so  on  and  on. 

This  extraordinary  scene  should,  I  think,  carry 
its  own  lesson.  First  of  all  an  unmarried  sister 
is  hardly  likely  to  be  so  patient  as  a  married 
woman;  again,  an  unmarried  sister  is  not  likely 
to  take  the  husband's  part;  finally,  no  unmarried 
sister  ever  yet  spoke  in  favour  of  a  man  as  Lu- 
ciana  speaks  in  this  long  tirade  against  liberty 
which  she  should  have  addressed  to  the  straying 
husband  and  not  to  the  faithful  wife.  Mani- 
festly, Shakespeare  is  making  the  sister  Luciana, 
in  defiance  of  probability,  admonish  and  reprove 
his  wife  as  he  would  wish  her  to  have  been  ad- 

28 


His  Wife:  Scold:  Shrew:  Termagant 

monished  and  reproved.  Adriana  is  as  natural 
In  jealousy  and  Impatience  as  Luclana  is  unnatu- 
ral. And  she  displays  the  same  temper  and  im- 
patience again  and  again  in  the  following  scene 
with  Dromio  of  Ephesus.  Indeed  here  she  car- 
ries her  ill-temper  to  such  a  pitch  that  she  would 
beat  the  servant  and  again  her  unsisterly  sister  re- 
proves her. 

Then  at  once  comes  the  incredible  scene  wherein 
Adriana  admits  her  own  age,  and  worse  still  ad- 
mits Its  deforming  effect: 

Luc.  Fie,  how  impatience  loureth  in  your  face! 

Adr.  His  company  must  do  his  minions  grace 
Whilst  I  at  home  starve  for  a  merry  look. 
Hath  homely  age  the  alluring  beauty  took 
From  my  poor  cheek'?  then  he  hath  wasted  it: 
Are  my  discourses  dull?  barren  my  wit? 
If  voluble  and  sharp  discourse  be  marr'd 
Unkindness  blunts  it  more  than  marble  hard: 
Do  their  gay  vestments  his  affections  bait? 
That's  not  my  fault:  he's  master  of  my  state: 
What  ruins  are  in  me  that  can  be  found. 
By  him  not  ruin'd?  then  is  he  the  ground 
Of  my  defeatures.     My  decayed  fair 
A  sunny  look  of  his  would  soon  repair: 
But  too  unruly  deer,  he  breaks  the  pale 
And  feeds  from  home;  poor  I  am  but  his  stale. 

At  the  risk  of  maddening  my  adversaries,  1 
must  point  out  that  every  word  of  this  weird 
speech   throws   light   on   Shakespeare's   married 

29 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

life.  To  take  the  main  point  first:  no  jealous 
woman  would  mention  her  age,  and  if  she  did 
mention  it  in  anger,  it  would  be  to  declare  that  it 
had  not  affected  her  beauty.  But  this  Adriana 
confesses  her  age;  confesses,  too,  that  it  has 
robbed  her  of  her  "  alluring  beauty";  she  harps 
on  the  fact,  indeed,  that  she  is  a  ''  decayed  fair." 
Shakespeare  was  cruel  to  poor  Anne  Hathaway. 
Now  take  the  first  line  of  her  speech;  "his 
minions  ";  Adriana  is  not  jealous  of  one  in  espe- 
cial as  women  are  apt  to  be,  but  of  many — we 
shall  soon  see  that  this  is  Shakespeare  confessing 
his  love  of  gay  company  and  an  audience.  Take 
the  second  line :  she  starves  at  home  for  "  a 
merry  look  " — surely  a  woman  would  say  for  "  a 
loving  look";  it  is  again  Shakespeare  painting 
himself.  Let  no  one  think  this  is  supersubtle;  it 
is  obvious :  Shakespeare  repeats  the  touch  a  few 
lines  further  on — "  a  sunny  look  ":  he  is  describ- 
ing himself.  Then,  too,  what  woman  would  think 
of  excusing  her  "  dull  discourses  "?  her  "  barren 
wit"?  These  are  Shakespeare's  charges  against 
his  wife.  Again;  would  any  woman  admit  in  this 
way  that  the  others  of  whom  she  is  jealous  have 
*'  gay  vestments  "  while  she  has  none;  she  would 
rather  make  this  to  her  sister  the  chief  reason 
why  her  husband  neglects  her  and  not  the  loss  of 

30 


His  Wife:  Scold:  Shrew:  Termagant 

her  good  looks.  Every  word  of  it  all  Is,  uncon- 
sciously, a  confession  of  young  Shakespeare  him- 
self.   The  incredible  sister  continues: 

Luc.  Self-harming  jealousy! — fie^  beat  it  hence! 

Adr.   Unfeeling  fools  can  with  such  wrongs  dispense. 
I  know  his  eye  doth  homage  other  where: 
Or  else  what  lets  it  but  he  would  be  here? 
Sister,  you  know  he  promised  me  a  chain; 
Would  that  alone,  alone  he  would  detain. 
So  he  would  keep  fair  quarters  with  his  bed. 

Since  that  my  beauty  cannot  please  his  eye, 

I'll  weep  what's  left  away,  and  weeping  die. 

Luc.   How  many  fond  fools  serve  mad  jealousy! 

Shakespeare's  accusation  of  his  wife  is  so 
naively  out  of  character  that  it  serves  to  convict 
him  and  paints  their  relations  even  to  the  sensual 
touch  in  the  line  I  have  italicised. 

One  other  thing  which  Adriana  says,  later, 
must  be  relieved  out  because  it  throws  light  on 
Shakespeare  himself: 

Adr.   Husband,  I'll  dine  above  with  you  to-day, 

And  shrive  you  of  a  thousand  idle  pranks.  .  .  . 

Surely  these  snapshots  of  the  jealous,  scolding 
Adriana  and  of  merry  sunny  vagrant  Shake- 
speare full  of  "  a  thousand  idle  pranks  "  in  gay 
company  may  be  accepted  in  their  entirety. 

But  even  this  series  of  intimate  pictures,  all 
31 


The  JVomcii  oj  Shakespeare 

out  of  place  as  they  are  In  the  play,  do  not  ex- 
haust the  evidence  that  Indeed  Shakespeare  Is 
here  giving  us  a  complete  account  of  his  rela- 
tions with  his  wife.  It  says  much  for  his  fair- 
ness of  mind  and  his  forglvlngness  of  temper 
that  he  is  not  content  to  portray  Adriana  as  a 
jealous  scold  without  admitting  that  she  had 
some  ground  for  jealousy:  with  real  dramatic 
Insight  he  even  goes  on  to  fecundate  her  "  bar- 
ren wit  "  with  reasonable  arguments : 

Adr.  Ay,  ay,  Antipholus,  look  strange  and  frown: 
Some  other  mistress  hath  thy  sweet  aspects; 
I  am  not  Adriana  nor  thy  wife. 
The  time  was  once  when  thou  unurged  wouldst  vow 
That  never  words  were  music  to  thine  ear. 
That  never  object  pleasing  to  thine  eye. 
That  never  touch  well  welcomed  to  thy  hand. 
That  never  meat  sweet-savour'd  in  thy  taste. 
Unless  I  spake,  or  look'd,  or  touch'd,  or  carv'd  to 

thee. 
How  comes  it  now,  my  husband,  O,  how  comes  it. 
That  thou  art  thus  estranged  from  thyself.^ 
Thyself  I  call  it,  being  strange  to  me. 
That,  undividable,  incorporate. 
Am  better  than  thy  dear  self's  better  part. 
Ah,  do  not  tear  away  thyself  from  me ! 
For  know,  my  love,  as  easy  mayst  thou  fall 
A  drop  of  water  in  the  breaking  gulf. 
And  take  unmingled  thence  that  drop  again. 
Without  addition  or  diminishing. 
As  take  from  me  thyself  and  not  me  too. 
How  dearly  would  it  touch  thee  to  the  quick, 
Shouldst  thou  but  hear  I  were  licentious.  .  .  . 


His  Wije:  Scold:  Shrew:   Termagant 

In  this  vein  she  goes  on  arguing  and  pleading 
for  pages. 

I  must  now  leave  to  my  readers  the  other  pas- 
sages where  Adriana's  characteristics  are  re- 
peated again  and  again,  and  always  over-em- 
^  phaslzed  and  content  myself  with  transcribing  the 
astounding  scene  at  the  end  of  the  play,  where 
Shakespeare  betrays  himself  finally  and  fully, 
the  scene  in  which  the  Abbess  leads  Adriana  on 
to  confess  her  jealous  nagging  and  then  shames 
her.  The  scene  is  utterly  out  of  place;  it  does 
not  advance,  but  retards  the  action;  it  is  a  blot 
and  blunder  only  to  be  accounted  for  by  Shake- 
speare's personal  bitterness : 

Abb.  How  long  hath  this  possession  held  the  man.f^ 

Adr.   This  week  he  hath  been  heavy^  sour,  sad. 
And  much  different  from  the  man  he  was: 
But  till  this  afternoon  his  passion 
Ne'er  brake  into  extremity  of  rage. 

Abb.   Hath  he  not  lost  much  wealth  by  wreck  of  sea? 
Buried  some  dear  friend.^     Hath  not  else  his  eye 
Stray'd  his  affection  in  unlawful  love.^ 
A  sW  prevailing  much  in  youthful  men, 
Who  give  their  eyes  the  liberty  of  gazing. 
Which  of  these  sorrows  is  he  subject  to.'' 

Adr.  To  none  of  these,  except  it  be  the  last; 

Namely,  some  love  that  drew  him  oft  from  home. 

Abb.  You  should   for  that  have  reprehended  him. 

Adr.  Why,  so  I  did. 

Abb.   Ah,  but  not  rougli  enougli. 

Adr.  As  roughly  as  my  modesty  would  let  me. 

Abb.  Haply,  in  private. 

33 


The  fVorneii  of  Shakespeare 

Adr.  And  in  assemblies  too. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  enough. 

Adr.   It  was  the  copy  of  our  conference; 

In  bed  he  slejit  not  for  my  urging  it; 

At  board  he  fed  not  for  my  urging  it; 

Alone,  it  was  the  subject  of  my  theme; 

In    company    I    often    glanced    it; 

Still  did  I  tell  him  it  was  vile  and  bad. 
Abb.  And  therefore  came  it  that  the  man  was  mad; 

The  venom  clamours  of  a  jealous  woman 

Poisons  more  deadly  than  a  mad  dog's  tooth.  .  .  . 

If  any  one  In  face  of  this  carefully  manufac- 
tured, ostensibly  impartial,  but  in  reality  viru- 
lent condemnation  can  still  maintain  that  Adri- 
ana  was  not  meant  for  Shakespeare's  wife,  he 
should  at  least  account  In  some  other  way  for 
the  hundred  astonishing  facts  In  this  story  which 
my  "  assumption  "  assuredly  does  explain  with 
perfect  ease  and  simplicity. 

Shakespeare  has  not  even  left  us  In  doubt 
about  his  attitude  as  a  husband  towards  his  wife. 
From  the  very  beginning  he  has  Identified  him- 
self, as  I  have  elsewhere  proved,  with  Antipholus 
of  Syracuse,  and  this  is  the  way  Antlpholus- 
Shakespeare  speaks  of  Adrlana: 

She  that  doth  call  me  husband,  even  my  soul 
Doth  for  a  wife  abhor.  .   .  . 

Now  there  is  no  reason  for  thi^  abhorrence  In 
the  play;  on  the  contrary,  Antipholus  has  been 

34 


His  Wife:  Scold:  Shrew:  Termagant 

well  treated  by  Adriana :  she  has  taken  him  to 
dinner,  and  been  kind  to  him.  How  are  we  to 
explain  this  uncalled-for  and  over-emphatic  con- 
demnation? How  can  we  account  for  it  save  by 
the  fact  that  poor  Shakespeare  Is  thinking  of  his 
own  forced  marriage  and  his  jealous,  scolding, 
violent  wife? 

We  shall  soon  see  that  the  circumstances  of 
Shakespeare's  forced  marriage  and  his  unhappy 
relations  with  his  wife,  as  narrated  In  my  book. 
The  Man  Shakespeare,  come  to  view  again  and 
again  In  these  youthful  works;  we  meet  refer- 
ences to  It,  sidelong  glances  at  It,  In  the  most  un- 
likely places. 

Lovers  Labour's  Lost  should  now  be  consid- 
ered, but  It  was  so  completely  revised  In  1597 
that  from  my  present  point  of  view  I  must  not 
handle  It  here  except  to  say  that  neither  the 
Princess  nor  any  of  her  ladles,  with  the  exception 
of  Rosaline,  has  any  existence  whatever.  They 
are  one  and  all  mere  lay  figures  Introduced  to 
show  off  Shakespeare's  wit.  Rosaline,  Indeed,  Is 
alive  from  head  to  foot,  but  her  character,  being 
wholly  due  to  the  later  revision,  must  be  consid- 
ered later. 

I  can  dismiss  Richard  IL  even  more  curtly; 
there  is  no  woman's  portrait  In  it  worth  men- 

35 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

tioning;  and  I  could  pass  over  Richard  III.  which 
is  a  continuation  of  the  Third  Part  of  Henry  VI., 
just  as  quickly,  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  the 
great  scene  in  the  first  act,  the  wooing  of  Anne 
by  Gloucester,  is  declared  by  Coleridge  not  to 
have  been  written  by  Shakespeare.  Coleridge 
does  not  tell  us  who  else  could  have  conceived 
this  w^onderful  scene.  He  contents  himself  with 
a  bare  denial,  and  of  course  the  professors  fol- 
low him  into  the  ditch.  Poor,  weak  Coleridge 
could  not  sympathize  with  the  masterly  life  In  the 
episode;  the  cynical  audacity  of  the  hunchback 
revolted  him,  and  so  he  refused  to  ascribe  the 
scene  to  his  Idol. 

The  marriage  of  Richard  with  the  widow  of 
the  man  he  murdered  Is  recorded  by  Holinshed 
without  remark.  It  Is  one  of  those  almost  in- 
credible facts  which  occur  in  life,  but  which 
genius  alone  would  try  to  use  In  art  or  to  explain. 
Instead  of  passing  lightly  over  the  difficulty  or 
omitting  all  mention  of  it,  Shakespeare  seizes  on 
it  eagerly;  difficulties  are  to  him  stepping-stones 
and  vantages,  and  this  one  enables  him  to  express 
some  of  his  youthful  contempt  for  women  and 
some  of  his  admiration  for  the  triumphant  brains 
and  adroitness  of  a  man.  Transmuted  into  a  sex- 
duel   the    incident   becomes   one   of   his    greatest 


His  Wije:  Scold:  Shrew:  Termagant 

scenes,  an  unforgettable  picture.  The  episode 
delays  the  action;  but  Richard  lives  in  it  with 
such  intensity  of  life;  his  wooing  is  so  masterly, 
his  cynical  effrontery  so  astounding  that  we  can 
never  afterwards  see  him  but  in  this  fierce,  raw 
limelight.  The  whole  scene  undoubtedly  belongs 
to  the  master;  no  one  else  could  have  done  such 
work. 

At  the  very  beginning,  Richard  shows  the  sinu- 
ous fierceness  of  a  wild  cat.  He  first  orders,  then 
threatens,  then  turns  to  Anne  with  obsequious 
flattery: 

Sweet  saint,  for  charity,  be  not  so  curst, 

and  on  the  very  next  page  his  prayer: 

Vouchsafe,  divine  perfection  of  a  woman  .  .  . 

removes  all  doubt:  it  is  all  Shakespeare,  and 
most  characteristic.  Richard  goes  on  to  talk  of 
"  beauty's  wreck  .  .  .  thy  heavenly  face  that 
set  me  on  .  .  ."  and  pictures  Edward  as 
"  framed  in  the  prodigality  of  nature  " — -every 
touch  pure  Shakespeare.  He  even  breaks  in  with 
the  "  Tush  "  we  have  already  found  in  the  char- 
acteristic Shakespearean  speeches  of  Suffolk  in 
the  First  Part  of  Henry  VI.  and  which  we  shall- 
find  again  in  Romeo.  Every  word  in  the  scene 
was  written  by  Shakespeare;  but  marvellously  as 

37 


The  fFomen  oj  Shakespeare 

Richard  is  painted  in  it,  Anne  scarcely  comes  to 
light  at  all.  She  curses  at  first  and  rails  with 
something  o^  the  malignant  verbosity  of  Mar- 
garet; but  there  is  hardly  more  than  a  suggestion 
of  individual  life.  When  Richard  tells  her  that 
he  will  kill  himself,  Anne  Is  touched  and  there  is 
just  a  hint  of  character-drawing :  she  says : 

I  would  I  knew  thy  hearty 

— just  one  good  stroke,  and  no  more.  She  turns 
to  joy  and  affection  too  suddenly  to  be  human; 
she's  a  weather-hen  in  woman's  shape  and  that's 
all. 

This  crude  painting  of  Anne,  and  Shake- 
speare's manifest  contempt  of  her,  give  us  the 
true  explanation  of  the  scene.  His  vanity  had 
been  wounded  in  his  unhappy  marriage;  he  had 
been  bruised  and  beaten  In  the  sordid  strife  with 
his  wife  and  forced  to  fly;  but  he  still  held  that 
the  man  was  the  master:  he  harped  on  the 
thought  to  strengthen  his  belief: 

She  is  a  woman^  therefore  may  be  woo'd; 
She  is  a  woman,  therefore  may  be  won. 

Titus  Andronicus. 
and: 

She's  beautiful,  and  therefore  to  be  woo'd; 
She  is  a  woman,  therefore  to  be  won. 

/.  Henry  VI. 

SZ 


His  Wije:  Scold:  Shrew:  Termagant 
and  again : 

That  man  that  hath  a  tongue,  I  say,  is  no  man. 
If  witli-  his  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman. 

The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

and  finally  Richard  himself  cries: 

Was   ever  woman  in  this  humour  woo'd? 
Was  ever  woman  in  this  humour  won? 

Evidently  Shakespeare  means  to  show  us  by 
Richard's  triumph  how  easy  It  Is  with  flattering 
words  to  overcome  and  win  a  woman,  even  a 
woman  maddened  with  grief  and  resentment. 
This  Is  the  balm  which  the  young  poet  lays  to  his 
hurt  pride. 

Before  I  try  and  corroborate  this  argument 
from  another  play  let  me  just  remark  that  the 
other  female  figures  In  Richard  III.  are  no  bet- 
ter drawn  than  that  of  Anne.  The  Duchess  of 
York  and  Queen  Elizabeth  rave  and  lament  as 
Margaret  raved:  there  Is  no  Individual  life  In 
any  of  them. 

The  women  characters  In  The  Taming  of  the 
Shrezv  hardly  deserve  consideration.  Neither 
Katharlna  nor  Blanca  Is  worthy  to  be  called  a 
woman's  portrait;  we  only  know  a  trait  or  two 
of  them,  and  the  widow  Is  not  even  outlined. 
But  the  play  Itself  has  another  and  deeper  In- 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

tcrest  for  us  as  throwing  light  on  Shakespcarc^s 
life  and  character.  In  spite  of  the  enormous 
success  it  has  had  on  the  stage  and  the  fact  that 
it  has  held  its  place  in  popular  liking  even 
to  our  time,  it  is  a  wretchedly  poor  farce,  and 
the  theme  is  utterly  unworthy  of  the  master. 
Some  of  the  play  does  not  read  like  him;  but  his 
hand  is  quite  plainly  revealed  in  the  scenes  be- 
tween Katharina  and  Petruchio;  in  fact  the  tam- 
ing of  the  shrew  is  his.  One  cannot  but  wonder 
why  Shakespeare  ever  put  hand  to  such  a  paltry 
subject.  The  answer  comes  pat  to  those  who  be- 
lieve that  he  himself  had  been  married  unhappily 
to  a  jealous,  ill-tempered  scold.  Marriage  had 
been  a  defeat  to  him:  he  could  not  but  see  that; 
in  this  play  he  will  comfort  his  pride  by  showing 
how  even  a  shrew  can  be  mastered;  how  violence 
can  be  subdued  by  violence.  The  moment  one 
looks  at  the  play  from  this  point  of  view,  its 
subconscious  purpose  becomes  clear  to  one  and  its 
faults  are  all  explained.  When  Katharina  obeys 
her  husband,  Hortensio  asks: 

...   I    wonder    what    it   bodes? 

and  Petruchio  replies: 

Marry,  peace  it  bodes,  and  love  and  quiet  life, 
And  awful  rule  and  right  supremacy; 
And,  to  be  short,  what  not,  that's  sweet  and  happy? 
40 


His  Wife:  Scold:  Shrew:  Termagant 

In  no  other  way  but  as  a  salve  to  wounded 
vanity  can  one  explain  Katharlna's  appalling- 
foolish  lecture  to  the  other  wives  with  which  the 
play  reaches  its  climax  in  Act  5,  scene  2. 

Fie,  fie!  unknit  that  threatening  unkind  brow. 
And   dart   not   scornful   glances    from   those   eyes. 
To  wound  thy  lord,  thy  king,  thy  governor.   .  .  . 
*  *  -x-  *  * 

A  woman  moved  is  like  a  fountain  troubled. 
Muddy,   ill-seeming,   thick,   bereft  of  beauty; 
And  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip  or  touch  one  drop  of  it.  .  .  . 

Even  with  the  explanation  in  mind  one  is  in- 
clined to  marvel  how  Shakespeare  could  seriously 
pen  such  drivel;  but  he  goes  on  raving  for  an- 
other thirty  lines: 

Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince 
Even  such  a  woman  oweth  to  her  husband; 
And  when  she  is  froward,  peevish,  sullen,  sour. 
And  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will. 
What  is  she  but  a  foul  contending  rebel 
And  graceless  traitor  to  her  loving  lord.f*  .  .  . 
***** 
Come,   come,   you   froward   and   unable   worms!  .  .  .  . 


Then  vail  your  stomachs,  for  it  is  no  boot. 

And  place  your  hands  below  your  husband's  foot.  .  .  . 

Any  one  who  knows  Shakespeare  will  find  an 
accent  of  personal  feeling  in  every  line  of  this 

41 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

silly  tirade.  The  proof  that  my  explanation  is  the 
right  one  may  be  carried  to  minute  detail.  As 
soon  as  Shakespeare  finished  writing  this  aston- 
ishing speech  of  Katharina  he  threw  down  the 
pen;  the  last  ten  lines  of  this  play  or  most  of 
them,  appear  to  be  written  by  another  hand;  the 
interest  had  gone  out  of  the  thing  for  him  when 
Katharina  was  sufficiently  humbled  and  he  tossed 
the  farce  aside.  It  Is  to  be  hoped  that  he  got  rid 
In  it  of  some  of  the  bitterness  and  anger  which 
his  wife's  Ill-temper,  jealousy,  and  shrewish  na- 
ture had  bred  in  him.  But  enough  and  more 
than  enough  hatred  of  her  burned  In  him  all 
through  his  life. 

I  must  consider  here  a  play  which  was  written 
two  or  three  years  later  because  though  It  belongs 
to  happy  hours,  to  the  spring-tide  Indeed  of  his 
success  in  London,  It  deals  again  with  Strat- 
ford, brings  again  his  wife  sharply  to  memory 
and  shows  how  Intimately  the  poet's  life  was  In- 
terwoven with  his  art. 

King  John  is  with  some  certainty  dated  about 
1596.  It  was  in  1596  that  Shakespeare  visited 
Stratford  for  the  first  time  after  an  absence  of 
eight  or  nine  years:  he  was  recalled  orobably  by 
the  news  that  his  son  Hamnet  was  very  111.  His 
son's  death  made  a  great  Impression  on  Shake- 

42 


His  Wife:  Scold:  Shrew:  Termagant 

speare;  it  Is  responsible,  I  think,  for  the  exqui- 
site tenderness,  beauty  and  pathos  with  which  he 
has  Invested  the  figure  of  young  Arthur,  and  also 
for  the  tragic  intensity  of  the  Queen-mother's 
grief. 

Shakespeare  took  his  King  John  from  an  old 
play  which  we  still  possess.  The  Troublesome 
Reign  of  King  John.  In  it  Constance  is  pictured 
as  high-tempered  and  Arthur  as  a  bold  youth  of 
eighteen  or  nineteen,  but  Shakespeare  turned 
Arthur  Into  a  young  boy,  a  girl-boy,  all  affection 
and  tenderness,  and  at  the  same  time  hardened 
Constance  into  a  "  bedlam."  Constance  Is  pre- 
sented to  us  as  so  bad-tempered,  such  a  raging 
wordy  termagant  that  I  am  forced  to  believe 
Shakespeare  is  again  thinking  of  his  own  wife. 
For  there  Is  no  object  in  making  Constance  a 
shrew;  Shakespeare  paints  her  afterwards  as  a 
mother  mourning  for  her  only  son,  and  evidently 
tries  to  bring  out  all  the  pathos  of  her  misery, 
he  would  have  done  better,  therefore,  not  to  have 
alienated  one's  sympathy  from  her  at  the  begin- 
ning by  making  her  an  Intolerable  scold.  But  he 
had  just  been  In  Stratford,  his  wife  had  been  be- 
fore his  eyes,  and  he  cannot  help  depicting  her 
raging  violent  passion.  Constance  Is  as  bad-tem- 
pered as  Adrlana  herself,   and  that's   saying   a 

43 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

good  deal.  From  the  point  of  view  of  art  the 
bad  temper  of  Constance  is  much  more  significant. 
After  all  Adriana  had  some  reason  for  her  ill- 
humour.  She  was  passionately  in  love,  madly- 
jealous,  and  her  husband  neglected  her;  but  this 
Constance  is  a  raging  termagant  without  any  such 
cause.  We  cannot,  therefore,  understand  her  ill- 
humour;  we  simply  dislike  her  and  accordingly 
have  less  sympathy  with  her  in  her  affliction. 

Constance  comes  on  the  stage  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  second  act.  At  first  she  is  becomingly 
grateful  for  the  help  offered  to  her  by  King 
Philip  and  Austria  and  counsels  patience  and 
peace.  A  moment  later  she  begins  to  rant  and 
rage ;  even  her  gentle  son  Arthur  has  to  reprove 
her: 

Good  my  mother,  peace ! 
I  would  that  I  were  low  laid  in  my  grave: 
I  am  not  worth  this  coil  that's  made  for  me. 

But  nothing  can  stop  Constance's  tongue.  She 
raves  even  worse  than  Margaret  raved,  till  at 
last  King  John  pulls  her  up  with: 

Bedlam,   have   done. 

She  answers  him: 

I  have  but  this  to  say  .  .  . 

and  rages  on;  she  is  indeed  as  Elinor  calls  her, 

44 


His  Wife:  Scold:  Shrew:  Termagant 

Ian  "  unadvised  scold."     .     .     .     Austria  reproves 
her,  and  at  length  King  Philip  cries: 

Peace,  lady!  pause,  or  be  more  temperate; 

She  appears  again  at  the  opening  of  the  third 
act.  She  has  learned  from  Salisbury  that  peace 
has  been  made  between  France  and  England,  and 
'her  temper  comes  again  to  show: 

Gone  to  be  married !  gone  to  swear  a  peace ! 
False  blood  to  false  blood  join'd!  gone  to  be  friends! 
Shall  Lewis  have  Blanch,  and  Blanch  those  provinces? 
It  is  not  so;  thou  hast  misspoke,  misheard;  .  .  . 

After  holding  forth  for  a  page  or  so  In  this 
strain  she  attacks  Salisbury  the  messenger,  for 
bringing  the  tidings : 

Fellow,  be  gone:  I  cannot  brook  thy  sight: 

This  news  hath  made  thee  a  most  ugly  man. 
Sal.        What  other  harm  have  I,  good  lady,  done. 

But  spoke  the  harm  that  is  by  others  done? 
Const.   Which  harm  within  itself  so  heinous  is 

As  it  makes  harmful  all  that  speak  of  it. 
Arth.     I  do  beseech  you,  madam,  be  content.  .  .  . 

But  nothing  will  content  her.     She  raves  on  page 

after  page,  now  against  Philip,  now  against  Aus- 

1  tria,  till  one  wonders  how  the  princes  could  have 

:  stood   It,    and   when    Pandulph   enters   she    asks 

characteristically  for  leave  to  curse: 

O,  lawful  let  it  be 
That  I  have  room  with  Rome  to  curse  awhile!  .  .  • 
45 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

A  raging  ranting  cursing  scold  she  is,  and  noth- 
ing more. 

Suddenly  the  overloud  note  is  muted:  as  soon 
as  Arthur  is  taken  prisoner  she  jumps  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  Is  dead;  long  before  even  the  fa- 
mous scene  between  Hubert  and  Arthur  takes 
place,  she  grieves  for  her  child  as  lost.  The 
agony  of  her  grief  is  so  realized  that  it  carries 
us  all  away  with  it,  and  turns  the  furious  scold 
into  one  of  the  great  tragic  figures  of  our  litera- 
ture. 

At  first  she  does  not  strike  the  true  note. 
When  Philip  counsels  patience  and  comfort  she 
raves : 

No^  I  defy  all  counsel,  all  redress, 
But  that  which  ends  all  counsel,  true  redress, 
Death,  death;  O  amiable,  lovely  death! 
Thou  odoriferous   stench !  sound  rottenness ! 
Arise  forth  from  the  couch  of  lasting  night. 
Thou  hate   and  terror   to  prosperity.  .  .  . 

and  so  on,  plainly  the  poet  talking  and  not  yet 
In  the  spirit  of  the  part.  But  as  soon  as  Con- 
stance thinks  of  her  son,  her  voice  falls  to  mourn- 
ful sadness,  and  takes  on  the  very  accent  of  re- 
gret: 

...  I  was  Geffrey's  wife; 
Young  Arthur  is  my  son,  and  he  is  lost: 
I  am  not  mad:  I  would  to  heaven  I  were! 
46 


I 


His  Wife:  Scold:  Shrew:  Termagant 

For  then,  'tis  like  I  should  forget  myself: 
O,  if  I  could,  what  grief  should  I  forget! 
Preach  some  philosophy  to  make  me  mad, 
And  thou  shalt  be  canonized,  cardinal; 


too  well,  too  well  I   feel 
The  different  plague  of  each  calamity. 

King  Philip  prays  her  to  bind  up  her  hair,  and 
she  goes  off  again: 

Yes,  that  I  will;  and  wherefore  will  I  do  it? 
I  tore  them  from  their  bonds  and  cried  aloud 
"  O  that  these  hands  could  so  redeem  my  son, 
As  they  have  given  these  hairs  their  liberty !  " 
But  now  I  envy  at  their  liberty. 
And  will  again  commit  them  to  their  bonds. 
Because  my  poor  child  is  a  prisoner.  .  .  . 


There  is  distinct  individuality  now  in  the  scold- 
ing verbosity,  which  characterizes  even  her  grief. 
But  it  is  when  she  again  talks  of  the  child  that  she 
touches  the  heart: 

There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  born. 
But  now  will  canker  sorrow  eat  my  bud 
And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek 
And  he  will  look  as  hollow  as  a  ghost 
As  dim  and  meagre  as  an  ague's  fit. 
And  so  he'll  die;  and,  rising  so  again. 
When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven 
I  shall  not  know  him:  therefore  never,  never 
Must  I  behold  my  pretty  Arthur  more.   .  .  . 

This  seems  to  me  Shakespeare's  own  emotion. 
The  wonderful  first  line : 

47 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  born 

is  unmistakable,  and  he  will  give  us  that  "  gra- 
cious "  again. 

When  the  mother-grief  of  Constance  swings 
higher  still  and  reaches  the  soul  of  sorrow,  to 
me  it  is  again  Shakespeare  speaking,  Shakespeare 
lamenting  his  own  loss,  at  least  for  the  first  six 
lines : 

Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child. 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me. 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words. 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts. 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form; 
Then,  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief? 
Fare  you  well:  had  you  such  a  loss  as  I 
I  could  give  better  comfort  than  you  do. 
I  will  not  keep  this  form  upon  my  head. 
When  there  is  such  disorder  in  my  wit. 
O  Lord !  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son  ! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world! 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrows'  cure! 

The  last  seven  lines  are  poor  stuff,  and  the 
last  four  words  out  of  place,  intolerable:  but  the 
first  lines  are  all  perfect  till  the  poet  tries  to  think 
himself  into  the  character  of  Constance.  For 
this  Constance  lives  in  a  frenzy  as  the  poet  takes 
care  to  tell  us  that  she  dies  in  a  frenzy  too.  For 
years  his  furious  scolding  wife  simply  obsessed 
Shakespeare;    but    the    intense    emotion    which 

48 


His  Wife:  Scold:  Shrew:  Termagant 

throbs  through  these  pages  Is  Shakespeare's  own 
emotion — his  grief,  his  agony  of  bereavement — 
speaking  through  the  scolding  mask.     How  lov- 

I     able  his  young  boy  must  have  been  to  have  wrung 

'    such  a  phrase  from  him : 

There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  born. 

p  The  sorrow  of  young  Hamnet's  loss  lived  with 
gentle  Shakespeare  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  Four- 
teen or  fifteen  years  later  we  find  it  again  in  The 
Winter*s  Tale  when  he  describes  young  Mamll- 
lius,  who  charms  every  one  by  telling  fairy  stories 
with  childish  grace  and  dies  through  "  thoughts 
too  high  for  one  so  tender." 

I  cannot  regard  any  of  the  other  women  char- 
acters In  King  John  as  more  than  historical  lay 
figures:  Elinor  Is  as  wooden  as  she  can  be,  and 
Blanch  is  no  better. 

My  readers  will  notice  that  all  through  the 
piece  I  take  part  with  Shakespeare  against  his 
wife.  For  a  dozen  reasons  I  accept  his  view  that 
she  was  a  shrew  of  the  worst;  one  may  here  suf-. 
fice.  From  Jonson  and  Chettle  we  know  that 
Shakespeare  was  very  gentle  and  sweet-tem- 
pered, justified  Indeed  In  portraying  himself  as 
he  allows  the  servant  In  The  Comedy  of  Errors 
to   portray  him   as   the   reverse   of   "  choleric." 

49 


The  fVomen  oj  Shakespeare 

This  mildness  of  Shakespeare  Is  attested  by  other 
facts.  He  was  criticized  again  and  again  by  surly 
Jonson,  for  Instance,  now  with  reason,  and  now 
without;  yet  remained  a  friend  of  Jonson's  to  the 
end.  He  preached  forgiveness,  too,  as  a  duty  all 
through  his  life,  and  yet  he  nursed  his  dislike  of 
his  wife  to  the  grave  and  beyond  It,  as  I  have 
shown  In  The  Man  Shakespeare.  She  was  the 
one  person  whom  he  could  never  forgive.  I  am 
convinced  that  the  Xanthippe  of  Socrates  was  not 
a  more  violent  termagant  than  Anne  Hathaway. 


50 


CHAPTER    III 


THE  SALVE  TO  VANITY :  HOW  WOMEN  WOO  ! ^THE 

MIDSUMMER  NIGHT's  DREAM :  THE  TWO  GEN- 
TLEMEN OF  VERONA:  all's  WFLL 


TN  the  first  two  chapters  I  have  said  enough,  I 
think,  about  Shakespeare's  eadiest  attempts 
at  picturing  women.  No  great  master  has  ever 
done  worse.  In  spite  of  his  rich  sensual  endow- 
ment, and  his  incomparable  gift  of  speech,  his 
first  sketches  were  as  bad  as  bad  could  be.  To 
say  nothing  of  the  atrocious  Joan  of  Arc,  it  is 
difficult  to  understand  how  a  great  man  at 
twenty-six  or  twenty-seven  years  of  age  could 
have  been  content  with  a  mere  fiend  like  Ta- 
mora  or  a  typical  lay  figure  like  Queen  Mar- 
garet, and  the  talkative  princess  and  her  maid- 
ens in  Lovers  Labour's  Lost,  and  the  innumerable 
duchesses  and  great  ladies  of  the  early  historical 
plays  are  all  just  as  wooden,  mere  marionettes. 

The  portrait  of  his  jealous,  scolding  wife  as 
Adriana  is  the  first  sketch  which  has  any  indi- 
vidual life  in  it.     His  unhappy  marriage  over- 

51 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

shadows  much  of  his  early  work.  We  have 
traced  it  in  Suffolk's  wooing  of  Margaret  in  the 
First  Part  of  Kitig  Henry  VI.;  it  dominates  the 
whole  of  The  Comedy  of  Errors;  it  inspires  the 
great  scene  between  the  hunchback  and  Anne  in 
Richard  III.;  it  supplies  the  theme  of  The  Tam- 
ing of  the  Shrew  and  explains  the  otherwise  in- 
explicable tirade  in  that  play  against  those  wives 
who  are  not  the  mere  slavish  instruments  of  their 
husbands'  pleasure. 

Even  the  servility  of  Katharina  and  the  sub- 
mission of  Anne  did  not  satisfy  Shakespeare. 
He  will  now  show  us  in  play  after  play  how  girls 
run  after  men.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the 
taming  of  women  and  the  triumphing  over  them 
on  the  one  hand  and  these  pictures  of  girl  after 
girl  pursuing  the  hero,  with  dog-like  devotion  on 
the  other  were  not  only  a  balm  to  his  wounded 
vanity,  but  were  also  probably  a  result  of  young 
Shakespeare's  conquests  of  women  in  those  early 
years  in  London. 

His  success  in  every  field  had  been  astound- 
ing. He  had  come  to  the  Bankside  at  twenty- 
two  or  twenty-three  years  of  age,  an  unknown 
country  lad,  and  in  five  or  six  years  he  had  made 
himself  the  first  poet  of  his  time,  and  the  master 
of  the  theatre.     He  was  not  only  sensuous,  good- 

52 


The  Salve  to  Vanity:    How  Women  Woo! 

looking,  and  sweet-mannered,  but  he  had  about 
him  the  halo  of  genius;  he  had  a  good  deal  of 
money,  too,  and  could  Invite  ladles  to  the  theatre 
to  see  his  plays.  Love  must  have  been  offered 
to  him  on  every  side,  and  the  little  soreness  of 
the  ancient  wound  which  still  twitched  In  him, 
made  him  eager  to  dwell  on  his  triumphs,  and 
accordingly  he  pictures  them  for  us  In  the  Mid- 
summer Nighfs  Dream,  In  the  first  sketch  of 
Airs  Well  that  Ends  Well,  and  In  The  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona.  In  all  these  plays  the 
heroes  are  courted  and  pursued  by  the  heroines. 
This  group  of  plays  shows  a  considerable 
growth  In  Shakespeare's  knowledge  of  his  art. 
His  life  with  his  wife  had  humiliated  and  en- 
raged him;  but  It  had  no  doubt  opened  his  eyes 
and  taught  him  that  all  women  were  not  like  the 
creatures  of  his  Imagination.  The  early  happy 
days  in  London,  when  he  began  to  exercise  his 
craft  successfully  and  make  his  way  to  the  front, 
were  even  richer  in  experiences.  He  had  spent 
laborious  days  bettering  old  plays  of  Greene  and 
others;  had  written  thousands  of  passionate 
verses,  and  above  all  had  worked  at  one  table 
with  Marlowe  over  Henry  VI.:  he  had  fleeted 
wild  nights  with  Bardolph  and  Pistol  and  Fal- 
staff  at  Dame  Quickly's;  had  met  the  lords  of 

53 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

life  and  masters  of  England  with  Southamp- 
ton and  Essex,  and  their  charming  easy-man- 
nered friends,  and  was  now  on  the  crest  of  the 
seventh  wave  of  success.  The  merry  girls  o'  the 
Bankslde  were  proud  of  a  smile  from  him:  rich 
citizens*  dames  were  fluttered  by  his  approach: 
even  high  court  ladies  had  a  gracious  greeting 
for  the  handsome  young  poet.  Sunny  happy 
days  ripen  the  fruit;  but  It  takes  a  storm  to  shake 
It  down.  It  was  well  for  Shakespeare  and  for  us 
that  his  conceit  and  contentment  came  to  a  fall. 

Late  In  1596  or  early  In  1597  he  met  for  the 
first  time  the  woman  who  was  to  change  the 
world  for  him.  We  can  tell  In  his  works  the  very 
moment  he  saw  her.  As  soon  as  he  met  her  he 
tried  to  paint  her  and  at  once  began  to  abandon 
the  lay  figures  which  he  had  hitherto  mistaken 
for  heroines.  From  this  time  on  his  spiritual 
growth  Is  astounding — a  continuous  flame-like 
effort  reaching  up  from  height  to  height.  There 
Is  nothing  In  literature  so  instructive  and  few 
things  so  Interesting  as  the  extraordinary  growth 
and  development  of  Shakespeare's  soul  in  the 
madding  fever  of  passion. 

The  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream  I  Imagine 
dates  from  1594;  I  like  to  think  of  It  as  written 
when  Shakespeare  was  just  thirty  years  of  age. 

5^ 


The  Salve  to  Vanity:   How  Women  Woo! 

The  play  has  a  romantic  individuality  of  its  own. 
It  is  a  charming  fairy  tale  and  the  hand  of  the 
dramatist  begins  to  show  itself  in  the  portraits  of 
the  women.  At  first  it  is  true  they  are  not  dif- 
ferentiated as  they  are  later:  in  the  early  scenes 
Hermia  might  be  Helena,  and  Helena,  Hermia; 
for  they  are  both  desperately  in  love,  and  that  is 
about  all  we  know  of  them.  Hermia  is  happy  in 
I.ysander^s  affection,  while  Helena  grieves  be- 
cause Demetrius  scorns  her;  but  these  are  dif- 
ferences of  circumstance  and  not  of  character. 
Hermia  begins  to  talk  of  her  modesty  and  vir- 
ginity, as  all  Shakespeare's  girl  heroines  are  in- 
clined to  talk,  in  contempt  of  probability;  Helena, 
too,  tells  Demetrius  of  Hermia's  flight  with  Ly- 
sander  and  so  brings  about  a  meeting  between 
the  man  she  loves  and  her  rival  in  defiance  of 
human  nature ;  in  all  this  there  is  no  hint  of  char- 
acter-drawing. 

But  when  Hermia  and  Helena  quarrel  in  the 
second  scene  of  the  third  act  they  are  for  the  mo- 
ment clearly  differenced,  and  curiously  enough 
Shakespeare  tries  to  distinguish  between  the  two 
girls  by  contrasting  their  figures  and  tempers. 
Hermia  is  shown  to  us  as  small,  vehement,  and 
plucky,  whilst  Helena  is  tall,  gentle,  and  faint- 
hearted : 

55 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

Hel.   I  pray  you,  though  you  mock  me,  gentlemen. 
Let  her  not  hurt  me:  I  was  never  curst; 
I  have  no  gift  at  all  in  shrewishness; 
I  am  a  right  maid  for  my  cowardice: 
Let  her  not  strike  me.     You  perhaps  may  think. 
Because  she  is  something  lower  than  myself. 
That  I  can  match  her.  ... 


A  little  later  she  again  recurs  to  this  difference 
and  emphasizes  the  same  trait : 

Hel.  O,  when  she's  angry,  she  is  keen  and  shrewd! 
She  was  a  vixen  when  she  went  to  school. 
But  though  she  be  but  little,  she  is  fierce. 

This  Is  about  the  only  touch  of  character-draw- 
ing that  can  be  found  In  the  play.  It  is,  how- 
ever, sufficient  for  its  purpose;  the  contrasted 
sketches  are  in  perfect  keeping  with  the  charm- 
ing foolery,  and  show  us  besides  that  Shake- 
speare is  beginning  to  realize  the  necessity  of 
painting  women  as  individual  beings.  For  a  mo- 
ment these  two  love-laden  girls,  Helena  and 
Hermia,  live  for  us^quarrelling,  courting,  kiss- 
ing— and  then  we  lose  sight  of  them  down  some 
green  forest  glade;  for  Titania  takes  the  eye 
as  she  passes  with  her  cowslip-pensioners  in  their 
golden  coats,  and  we  strain  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
Puck  In  the  happy  rout,  while  Bottom,  the  prince 
of  mummers,  roars  like  a  lion,  and  the  fairies  flit 

5Q 


The  Salve  to  Vanity:   How  Women  fFoo! 

across  the  moonlit  spaces,  hanging  the  iiowers 
with  pearls  of  dew. 

Like  the  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream,  The 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  is  distinguished  by  its 
lovelorn  maidens  and  their  unblushing  pursuit 
of  the  men  they  have  chosen.  The  professors 
say  it  was  written  a  little  before  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  but  I  can't  believe  it.  Professor 
Herford  says,  "  striking  similarities  of  phrase 
and  some  in  situation  connect  the  play  with  the 
Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream,  as  also  with  Romeo 
and  Juliet.'^  So  far  as  the  character-drawing  of 
the  women  is  concerned  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona  is  far  more  closely  connected,  as  we  shall 
see,  with  The  Merchant  of  Venice.  The  pro- 
fessor goes  on  to  assert  that  though  "  far  su- 
perior In  dramatic  structure  to  Love's  Labour's 
Lost,  it  certainly  bears  a  fainter  mark  of  Shake- 
speare's hand."  This  Is  merely  echoed  nonsense. 
The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  is  pure  Shake- 
speare from  start  to  finish;  young  Shakespeare 
at  his  most  characteristic.  I  should  put  the  play 
later  than  the  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream,  and 
the  latter  part  of  the  last  act  appears  to  have 
been  revised  as  late  as  1598. 

In  Its  present  form  It  Is  a  far  maturer  work 
than  the  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream,  at  least  in 

57. 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

characterization.  The  construction  is  puerile  in 
both,  but  no  sure  Inference  as  to  the  date  of  com- 
position can  be  drawn  from  this  fact :  for  Shake- 
speare was  always  careless  of  construction  and 
inexpert  in  what  one  might  call  the  carpentry- 
work  of  the  stage.  In  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona  the  construction  is  as  amateurish  as  that 
of  the  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream.  Julia  is  In 
love  with  Proteus  and  Sylvia  with  Valentine,  just 
as  Hermia  was  in  love  with  Lysander,  and 
Helena  with  Demetrius.  The  greatest  diflficulty 
in  this  play  Is  to  reconcile  the  childish  construc- 
tion with  the  maturity  of  the  heroine's  charac- 
terization, for  whereas  Helena  and  Hermia  at 
first  are  mere  stage  names,  and  are  never  pro- 
foundly studied,  Julia  In  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona  Is  painted  with  astonishing  realism  and 
decision  and  lives  for  us  as  soon  as  she  appears. 
Let  us  study  the  portrait  with  all  care  for  In 
this  Julia  we  have  probably  the  first  sketch 
(taken  from  a  distance)  of  the  woman  who 
was  the  love  of  Shakespeare's  life.  The  proofs 
of  all  this  will  appear  later;  here  one  must  be 
content  to  remark  the  extraordinary.  Immeasur- 
able improvement  In  character-drawing. 

In  the  second  scene  of  the  first  act  Julia  comes 
upon  the  stage  and  talks  to  her  maid  Lucetta, 

58 


The  Salve  to  Vanity:    How  Women  Woo! 

just  as  Portia  and  Nerissa  a  little  later  talk  about 
Portia's  lovers.  Julia  wishes  to  know  her  maid's, 
opinion  as  to  which  is  the  worthiest  of  the  gen- 
tlemen : 

That  every  day  with  parle  encounter  me.  .  .  . 

Then  as  they  are  mentioned  one  by  one  she  tells 
them  off,  till  Proteus  is  named,  when  she  denies 
not  only  her  love,  but  her  Interest  In  him,  evi- 
dently with  the  object  of  getting  Lucetta  to  as- 
sure her  of  his  love  and  praise  him: 

Jul.   Why  he,  of  all  the  rest,  hath  never  moved  me. 
Luc.  Yet  he,  of  all  the  rest,  I  think,  best  loves  ye. 
Jul.    His  little  speaking  shows  his  love  but  small. 
Luc.  Fire  that's  closest  kept  burns  most  of  all.  .  .  . 

Shakespeare  wishes  to  persuade  his  lady  that 
his  tongue-tied  timidity  is  the  best  proof  of  sin- 
cerity; though  he  surely  was  never  timid  with  a 
girl  of  his  own  rank.  Then  comes  a  touch  which 
we  have  already  noticed  as  the  only  realistic  touch 
in  the  character  of  Anne  in  Richard  III.:  Shake- 
speare has  to  repeat  his  little  "  finds  "  of  char- 
acter-drawing, because  as  yet  he  has  not  many  at 
his  command: 

Jul.  I  would  I  knew  his  mind.  .  .  . 

Anne  says  to  Gloucester; 

I  would  I  knew  thy  heart.  .  .  . 
59 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

Julia  then  refuses  to  read  the  letter  of  Proteus; 
swears,  too,  by  her  "  modesty,"  and  behaves  as 
the  conventional  Shakespearean  girl.  But  no 
sooner  does  the  maid  take  her  at  her  word  and 
go  away  than  this  Julia  changes  her  tune: 

Jul.   And  yet  I  would  I  had  o'erlooked  the  letter; 
It  were  a  shame  to  call  her  back  again 
And  pray  her  to  a  fault  for  which  I  chid  her. 
What  a  fool  is  she,  that  knows  I  am  a  maid. 
And  would  not  force  the  letter  to  my  view! 
*  *  *  4f  * 

My  penance  is  to  call  Lucetta  back 
And  ask  remission  for  my  folly  past. 
\^Tiat  ho  !  Lucetta  ! 

With  such  excellent  touches  of  Impatient  na- 
ture Julia  lives  for  us,  as  none  of  Shakespeare's 
heroines  has  yet  lived,  and  the  dramatist  displays 
considerable  Ingenuity  In  Inventing  scenes  In 
which  she  may  discover  new  traits  of  her  char- 
acter. He  Is  evidently  studying  this  girl  with 
love's  fine  wit.  When  Lucetta  comes  back  Julia 
asks  her  about  the  dinner,  and  not  about  the 
letter,  and  when  after  beating  about  the  bush  she 
at  length  gets  the  letter,  she  tears  It  up  and  throws 
the  pieces  aside,  girlishly  anxious  not  to  betray  her 
passion  to  her  maid.  As  soon  as  Lucetta  goes  out 
of  the  room  Julia  picks  up  the  letter,  devours 
It  at  a  glance,  kisses  each  several  piece  of  paper 

60 


The  Salve  to  Vanity:    How  Women  Woo! 

for  amends,  and  with  a  conceit  which  Is  so  natu- 
ral and  pretty  that  It  excuses  the  suggestlveness, 
;she   folds  the  bits  of  paper  so  that  the  words 
i"poor  forlorn  Proteus     .     .     .     passionate  Pro- 
[teus  "  may  He  on  "  sweet  Julia : '' 

Thus  will  I  fold  them  one  upon  another: 
Now  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  will. 

There  Is  a  good  deal  of  passionate  human  na- 
ture In  this  Julia,  who  Is  twin-slster  to  the  Im- 
mortal Juliet,  and  who  also  reminds  me  of  Portia 
in  a  dozen  traits. 

When  her  lover  Proteus  goes  to  court,  Julia  de- 
termines to  follow  him,  and  now  she  confesses 
herself  to  her  maid,  as  Portia  will  confess  her 
love  for  Bassanio  to  Nerissa.  Julia  finds  a  beau- 
tiful phrase  for  her  passion: 

Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love.  .  .  . 

That  *'  Inly  ''  Is  to  me  delightful. 

Julia  has  to  be  dressed  up  as  a  man,  of  course, 
as  Portia  too  will  have  to  masquerade  as  a  man, 
and  Shakespeare  pictures  this  first  dressing  up 
with  more  detail.  Lucetta  says  she  must  cut  off 
her  hair:  Julia  will  not  allow  this;  she  will  tie  it 
up  In  "  true-love  knots."  Then  she  must  wear 
breeches.  The  maid  here  is  smutty;  but  Julia 
pulls  her  up  at  once. 

61 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

Jul.   Lucetta,  as  thou  lovest  me,  let  me  have 

What  thou  thinkest  meet  and  is  most  mannerly. 

Just  In  the  same  way  Portia  pulls  up  Gratiano. 
The  whole  picture  Is  astonishing,  and  at  least  as 
elaborate  as  the  portrait  of  Portia,  though  not 
thrown  on  the  paper  with  the  same  hr'io^  the  same 
ease  of  triumphant  mastery. 

In  the  fourth  scene  of  the  fourth  act,  when 
Julia  finds  out  that  her  Proteus  Is  In  love  with 
Sylvia,  she  again  finds  the  right  word: 

'Tis  pity  love  should  be  so  contrary; 

she  sighs,  and  Immediately  contrasts  her  feelings 
with  those  of  Proteus,  and  so  paints  herself 
again  for  us: 

Because  he  loves  her^  he  despiseth  me; 
Because  I  love  him^  I  must  pity  him. 

Then  follows  an  astonishing  scene  when  the 
two  rivals,  Julia  and  Sylvia  meet.  Sylvia  asks 
Julia  about  Julia : 

Is  she  not  passing  fair? 
and  Julia  answers: 

She  hath  been  fairer,  madam,  than  she  is: 
When  she  did  think  my  master  loved  her  well. 
She,  in  my  judgment,  was  as  fair  as  you.  .  .  . 

62 


The  Salve  to  Vanity:    Hoiu  Women  Woo! 

SiL.    How  tall  was  she  ? 

Jul.  About  my  stature;  .... 

When  Sylvia  goes  away,  Julia  sums  her  up  in 
soliloquy : 

A  virtuous  gentlewoman,  mild  and  beautiful! 

I  hope  my  master's  suit  will  be  but  cold, 

Since  she  respects  my  mistress'  love  so  much.  .  .  . 

And  Julia  paints  herself  at  the  same  time: 

If  I  had  such  a  tire,  this  face  of  mine 

Were  full  as  lovely  as  is  this  of  hers: 

And  yet  the  painter  flatter'd  her  a  little. 

Unless  I  flatter  with  myself  too  much. 

Her  hair  is  auburn,  mine  is  perfect  yellow; 

If  that  be  all  the  diiference  in  his  love, 

I'll  get  me  such  a  colour'd  periwig. 

Her  eyes  are  grey  as  glass,  and  so  are  mine: 

Ay,  but  her  forehead's  low,  and  mine's  as  high. 


Then  she  takes  up  her  rival's  picture  and  talks 
to  it,  as  none  of  Shakespeare's  heroines  has 
talked  yet,  quite  naturally: 


I'll  use  thee  kindly  for  thy  mistress'  sake. 
That  used  me  so;  or  else,  by  Jove  I  vow 
I  should  have  scratch'd  out  your  unseeing  eyes. 
To  make  my  master  out  of  love  with  thee!  .  .  . 

The  touch  of  temper  here  is  excellent.  Julia's 
character  is  kept  up,  even  when  she  is  in  her  boy's 
dress  in  the  last  act,  and  in  spite  of  the  revision: 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

she  Is  both  high-spirited  and  witty:  she  says  to 
her  lover: 

Be  thou  ashamed  that  I  have  took  upon  me 

Such  an  immodest  raiment,  if  shame  live 

In  a  disguise  of  love; 

It  is  the  lesser  blot,  modesty  finds, 

Women  to  change  their  shapes  than  men  their  minds.  .  .  . 

This  Julia  lives  for  us  from  beginning  to  end 
of  the  play — a  very  careful  full-length  portrait 
which  recalls  that  of  Portia  again  and  again,  so 
that  I  am  fain  to  believe  that  the  same  woman 
sat  for  both  pictures.  The  full  significance  of 
this  similarity  will  have  to  be  brought  out  when  I 
handle  Portia.  Here  I  can  do  nothing  but  draw 
attention  to  it,  and  to  the  fact  that  Julia  is  Shake- 
speare's first  achievement  in  this  field:  his  first 
portrait  of  a  woman  which  has  any  Individual 
life.  The  portrait  belongs,  I  think,  to  the  later 
revision  unless  indeed  the  whole  play  is  dated 
much  later  than  It  has  ever  been  dated,  and  later 
than  the  first  scenes  appear  to  justify. 

The  painting  of  Julia  Is  altogether  superior  to 
the  rest  of  the  play  except  the  last  scene,  which 
must  also  be  due  entirely  to  the  later  revision. 
Sylvia,  on  the  other  hand,  Is  not  Individualized 
at  all:  she  is  modest,  mild,  lovely,  faithful,  and 
nothing  more. 

64 


The  Salve  to   Vanity:    How  Women   Woo! 

Wc  now  come  to  a  very  peculiar  play,  AlVs 
Well  that  Ends  Well.  It  Is  the  latest  of  the 
plays  In  which  the  heroine  follows  the  hero  with 
her  love,  and  at  length  wins  him,  unless  Indeed 
we  Include  Twelfth  Night  as  another  variant  on 
the  same  theme,  which  I  am  not  Inclined  to  do. 
Like  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  AlVs  Well 
Is  an  early  play  which  has  been  greatly  revised, 
but  unlike  The  Tzvo  Gentlemen  of  Verona  the 
revision  has  not  been  successful,  partly  I  Imagine 
because  It  is  not  so  thorough-going;  partly  be- 
cause It  Is  a  much  later  work  than  the  early  sketch 
and  so  the  discrepancies  jar  Into  contrasts. 
When  Shakespeare  revised  Julia  In  The  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona,  he  made  her  all  of  a  piece, 
he  had  the  model  before  him:  but  when  he  re- 
vised Helena  In  AWs  Well  he  left  much  of  the 
early  sketch  with  Its  silly  conceits,  affected  word- 
wit  and  rhymed  letters,  and  these  peculiarities 
not  only  swear  at  the  later  touches,  but  render 
the  portrait  utterly  unrecognizable.  For  these 
and  other  reasons  which  will  appear  later  I  pre- 
fer to  put  off  the  criticism  of  AlFs  Well  till  I  can 
consider  the  revision  in  its  proper  place.  But  in 
the  first  sketch,  indeed  in  the  revision,  too, 
Helena  is  presented  as  pursuing  Bertram  with  as 
shameless  a  persistency  as  is  shown  by  any  of 

65 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

Mr.  Bernard  Shaw's  heroines.  In  Shakespeare's 
case  at  least  this  procedure  can  safely  be  regarded 
as  a  salve  to  wounded  vanity. 

In  all  that  we  have  as  yet  read  of  Shakespeare 
there  Is  to  me  nothing  superhuman,  nothing  of 
that  ineffable  quality  which  makes  his  name 
sacred  beyond  all  other  names.  Julia  stands  out 
as  very  honest,  careful  work;  the  courtship  of 
Richard  Is  surprising;  Titania  and  Bottom  de- 
lightful; the  grief  of  Constance  unforgettable; 
young  Arthur  beautiful  exceedingly;  but  these 
are  all  separate  scenes  and  personages,  and  per- 
haps none  of  them  is  beyond  the  reach  of  some 
other  poet;  though  the  width  of  range  is  already 
Shakespeare's  alone.  Now  In  Romeo  and  Juliet 
for  the  first  time  we  are  about  to  tread  the  prim- 
rose way  Into  Shakespeare's  kingdom. 


66 


CHAPTER    IV 

IDEALISTIC  STUDIES  OF  HIS  LOVE: JULIET: 

PORTIA:  BEATRICE:  ROSALIND:  VIOLA 

T  ALWAYS  think  of  Rovieo  and  Juliet  as  of 
the  so-called  Night  Watch  of  Rembrandt; 
it  is  full  of  minor  faults  all  redeemed  by  divine 
virtues.  Shakespeare,  like  Rembrandt,  has  done 
other  and  greater  things;  but  he  has  never  done 
anything  more  delightful  of  its  kind,  nothing  of 
a  more  intimate  and  communicable  charm. 

After  reading  Romeo  and  Juliet  through  for 
the  hundredth  time,  I  feel  inclined  to  say  that 
the  picture  of  Juliet  in  it,  is  finer  than  any  worn- ,; 
an's  portrait  ever  painted  by  any  other  poet. ' 
The  Antigone  of  Sophocles  has  been  inordinately 
praised.  But  after  all,  what  do  we  know  of  An- 
tigone? that  she  was  high-minded  and  coura- 
geous; that  she  will  bury  her  brother  even 
though  her  life  pays  the  penalty,  that  she  faced 
the  angry  Creon  and  death  with  the  same  marble 
resolve.  But  what  else  do  we  know  of  her?  She 
Is  a  mere  stony  outline  when  looked  at  side  by 

67 


The  Woinen  oj  Shakespeare 

«  side  with  this  living,  breathing,  palpitating  Juliet. 
Even  the  Gretchen  of  Goethe  Is  a  simple  sketch 
in  comparison.  Gretchen  Is  loving,  yes,  and  su- 
perstitious; credulous  and  easily  moved  by  those 
she  likes;  but  love  is  all  her  character;  Its  doubt, 
her  pathos;  Its  loss,  her  despair.  Were  It  not 
for  the  exquisite  poetry  with  which  Goethe  has 
clothed  her  (and  higher  poetry  is  not  to  be  found 
in  literature),  Gretchen  would  hardly  deserve 
her  fame,  so  simple  Is  she,  so  insignificant.  But 
fthls  Juliet  is  a  living  being,  Infinitely  more  com- 
plex and  Intelligent,  infinitely  more  Interesting 
therefore  than  Gretchen  or  Francesca. 

And  the  Nurse,  the  feminine  counterpart  of 
Falstaff,  what  shall  be  said  of  the  ever  famous 
Nurse?*  No  play  outside  Shakespeare  can 
boast  of  four  such  characters  as  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  Mercutio  and  the  Nurse.  I  will  not  go 
through  the  play,  scene  by  scene,  and  dissect 
Juliet  as  I  have  dissected  Julia,  and  as  I  am 
about  to  dissect  Portia  and  some  other  fascinat- 
ing heroines;  for  the  charm  of  Juliet  does  not  lie 
in  her  character,  but  in  the  fact  that  her  character, 
clear  though  its  outlines  are  and  finely  modelled 

*  I  look  upon  Dame  Quickly  as  harflly  more  than  an  elab- 
orate copy  of  the  Nurse  and  Doll  Tearsheet  is  only  venality 
incarnate  in  a  telling  name.  There  is  no  attempt  to  paint 
the  soul  of  either  woman. 

63 


Juliet:  Portia:  Beatrice:  Rosalind:   Viola 

(as  it  is,  is  fused  so  to  speak,  in  the  furnace  of  t 
first  passion.  Let  us  now  see  how  Shakespeare 
came  to  write  this  astonishing  masterpiece. 

The  prose  version  of  the  story  was  published 
by  the  Italian  novelist,  Bandello,  in  1554.  Al- 
ready in  this  narrative  we  have  Romeo's  mentor, 
Benvolio,  who  would  throw  the  cold  water  of 
reason  on  passion,  and  the  Nurse;  the  chief  inci- 
dents, too,  are  here;  the  love  at  first  sight,  the 
rope-ladder  and  Juliet's  vision  of  the  horrors  of 
the  vault. 

This  story  was  turned  into  English  verse  by 
Arthur  Brooke  in  1562;  a  prose  translation  ap- 
peared in  Painter's  Palace  of  Pleasure  in  1567. 
Shakespeare,  we  are  told,  was  acquainted  with 
both  these  versions;  but  the  poem  of  Brooke  was 
virtually  the  sole  source  of  his  work.  Brooke 
had  bettered  Bandello;  he  had  vivified  the  Italian 
story  by  adding  a  series  of  homely  English  real- 
istic traits  to  the  chief  characters:  for  example, 
he  turned  the  poison-seller  into  the  desperate 
Apothecary:  in  his  poem,  too,  Romeo  on  hearing 
of  his  banishment  throws  himself  on  the  ground 
and  tears  his  hair:  more  imiportant  still,  Brooke 
gives  a  vigorous  realistic  picture  of  the  Nurse,  in 
especial  he  notes  her  garrulity  about  Juliet's 
childhood;  her  acceptance  of  Romeo's  gold  and 

69 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

her  prompt  desertion  of  his  cause  when  he  is 
banished:  that  Is,  the  Nurse  lives  in  Brooke's 
poem  just  as  Hotspur  lived  In  English  history 
and  tradition,  and  just  as  the  Bastard  lived  in 
The  Troublesome  Reign.  Shakespeare  annexed 
the  realistic  traits,  heightened  their  effect  and 
shed  over  them  the  magic  of  his  divinely  simple 
poetry.  But  the  realistic  touches  were  given  to 
him  and  not  Invented  by  him — all  of  which  bears 
out  and  confirms  my  view  of  his  idealistic  poetic 
temperament.  Mercutio,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
all  his  own;  a  side  or  mood  of  himself  indeed; 
blood-brother  to  the  quick,  witty  Biron  of  Love's 
Labour's  Lost  and  to  the  talkative  Gratiano  of 
The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

I  But  nothing  can  take  our  eyes  away  from 
I  Juliet:  she  holds  the  centre  of  the  picture,  and 
her  figure  Is  more  Important  than  Romeo's.  In 
the  Italian  version  of  the  story  she  was  eighteen 
years  of  age,  but  Brooke  made  her  sixteen,  and 
Shakespeare  with  his  terrible  passionate  sensu- 
ality reduced  this  sixteen  to  fourteen.  Those 
who  deny  his  extravagant  sensuality  will  hardly 
be  able  to  deny  that  the  gravest  fault,  perhaps 
indeed,  the  only  grave  fault  in  his  character- 
drawing  of  Juliet  is  that  he  makes  her  talk  far 
more  sensually  than  a  maiden  talks: 

70 


Juliet:  Portia:  Beatrice:  Rosalind:  Viola 

Leap  to  these  arms,  untalk'd  of  and  unseen. 
Lovers  can  see  to  do  their  amorous  rites 
By  their  own  beauties;  or,  if  love  be  blind. 
It  best  agrees  with  night.     Come,  civil  night. 
Thou  sober-suited  matron,  all  in  black. 
And  learn  me  how  to  lose  a  winning  match, 
Play'd   for   a  pair   of  stainless  maidenhoods.  .  .  . 

The  words  sin  against  human  nature  In  their  sen- 
suahty  and  boldness.  Girls  hardly  ever  say  as 
much  as  they  think  or  feel;  but  this  Juliet  is  as 
outspoken  as  a  young  man : 

O,  I  have  bought  the  mansion  of  a  love. 
But  not  possess'd  it,  and,  though  I  am  sold. 
Not  yet  enjoy'd:  so  tedious  is  this  day 
As  is  the  night  before  some  festival.  .  .  . 

This  passionate  abandonment,  however,  adds  in-i 
tensity  to  the  love-song  and  deepens  the  effect  of  j 
its  terror  and  tragedy.  In  everything  else  Juliet! 
is  natural  enough  for  the  purpose  of  the  poem. 

Strange  to  say,  she  is  not  so  carefully  Indi- 
vidualized as  Julia  in  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona  though  she  lives  for  us  fnore  intensely 
by  reason  of  her  passion.  The  same  model 
served  for  both  pictures;  there  is  no  trait  in 
Juliet  which  is  not  marked  in  Julia;  but  Shake- 
speare was  not  so  intent  on  giving  us  the  portrait 
of  a  living  girl  in  Juliet  as  in  painting  once  for  all  \ 
the  lovely,  passionate  girl  of  his  ideal. 

71 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

But  how  did  he  get  this  quality  into  the  pic- 
ture?— this  throbbing  passion,  this  grace,  this 
tenderness,  this  pride  even;  for  Juliet  is  proud 
'in  her  loyalty;  she  condemns  the  Nurse  pitilessly 
as  soon  as  the  Nurse  is  false  to  Romeo.  Her  con- 
temptuous impatience  of  life,  too,  when  she  is 
separated  from  the  man  she  loves,  redeems  to 
a  certain  extent  her  sensuality.  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  Shakespeare  got  the  fascination  of 
this  play  from  the  happy  chance  that  just  before 
he  wrote  It  he  met  the  woman  who  was  destined 
to  be  the  passion  of  his  life.  I  am  compelled  to 
call  her  Mary  Fitton,  though  any  other  name  of 
a  high-born  woman  would  suit  me  as  well.  All 
probabilities  seem  to  be  in  favour  of  the  assump- 
tion that  the  one  star  of  his  Idolatry,  his  "  dark 
lady "  of  the  Sonnets  was  Mary  Fitton,  who 
came  to  be  mald-of-honour  to  Queen  Elizabeth 
as  a  girl  of  sixteen  In  1596.*  She  no  doubt  vis- 
ited the  theatre;  It  Is  certain  she  knew  Kemp, 
the  clown  of  Shakespeare's  company;  for  he 
ventured  to  dedicate  a  book  to  her  somewhat 
familiarly.  Shakespeare  had  probably  seen  her 
in  1596  and  fallen  In  love  with  her  at  first  sight: 

*  For  proofs  of  this,  one  shuiild  consult  Mr.  Tyler's  work 
on  the  Sonnets  and  for  confirmation  my  book  The  Man 
Shak9*'p$ar«. 

72 


Juliet:  Portia:  Beatrice:  Rosalind:   Viola 

in  1597  he  knew  her  well.  The  enchantment  she 
cast  upon  him  brought  with  it  an  entirely  new 
understanding  of  womanhood.  He  studied  her 
at  first  from  a  distance;  but  with  love's  Insight 
and  delight.  The  bare  impression  of  her  gave 
life  to  his  sketch  of  Julia;  he  painted  her  again 
for  us  as  Portia,  this  time  superbly,  but  still  from 
the  outside,  the  heart  of  her  he  did  not  know. 
What  was  it  like?  At  first,  as  we  shall  soon  see, 
she  seemed  to  him  careless,  proud;  for  she  stood 
aloof  and  paid  little  attention  to  him.  We  have 
her  photograph  as  Rosaline  In  Romeo  and  Juliet. 
But  the  poet  could  not  help  believing  that  her 
heart  was  all  he  desired,  perfect  like  her  body, 
and  he  painted  her  heart  for  us  as  he  Imagined 
It,  In  tender,  proud,  passionate  Juliet,  a  child  In 
Innocent  boldness,  a  woman  In  devoted  tender- 
ness, and  all  her  qualities  are  quickened  by  youth's 
impatience  and  love's  delight,  and  death  himself 
has  helped  to  make  her  Immortal;  for  us  as  for 
Romeo : 

.  .   .  beauty's   ensign  yet 
Is  crimson  in  lier  lips  and  in  her  cheeks. 

Shakespeare  even  found  It  possible  to  make  her 
passion  virtuous: 

.  .  .  trust  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true^ 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  stranp^^.  .  .  , 

73 


The  Wo77ie7i  oj  Shakespeare 


and  as  if  this  were  not  enough  he  gets  the  very   \ 
words  that  paint  the  trembhng  heart  of  the  girl 
forever : 

O  God^  I   have  an  ill-divining  soul! 

Thanks  to  his  passion  for  Mary  Fitton,  and  to 
the  glamour  of  his  lyric  poetry,  the  mere  name 
of  Juliet  has  already  borne  for  a  dozen  genera-  ' 
tions  of  men  the   imperishable   significance,   the 
freshness  and  the  honeyed  sweetness  of  first  love. 

It  now  remains  for  me  to  show  Juliet's  rela- 
tions to  Shakespeare's  mistress.  The  outward 
presentment  of  Mary  Fitton,  the  bodily  image 
of  her,  is  not  given  us  in  Juliet  but  in  Rosaline. 

The  first  mention  of  Rosaline  is  in  the  first  act 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  where  Romeo  talks  to  Ben- 
volio  of  his  love.     Here  is  the  passage: 


...  she'll  not  be  hit 
With  Cupid's  arrow;  she  hath  Dian's  wit; 
And  in  strong  proof  of  chastity  well  arm'd. 
From  love's  weak  childish  bow  she  lives  unharm'd. 
She  will  not  stay  the  siege  of  loving  terms, 
Not  bide  the  encounter  of  assailing  eyes. 
Nor  ope  her  lap  to  saint-seducing  gold; 
O,  she  is  rich  in  beauty,  only  poor 
That,  when  she  dies,  with  beauty  dies  her  store. 

The  last  couplet  reminds  one  both  of-  Venus 
and  Adonis  and  the  early  sonnets.     I  find  every 

74 


\ 


Juliet:  Portia:  Beatrice:  Rosalind:   Viola 

word  of  this  passage  characteristic.  It  appears 
from  it  that  his  love,  who  is  likened  to  the  proud 
huntress  Diana,  torments  Shakespeare-Romeo 
with  cold  indifference.  "  She'll  not  be  hit  with 
Cupid's  arrow,"  he  says;  "  she  hath  foresworn  to 
love  ";  but  her  aloofness,  we  learn,  has  limits: 

She  is  too  fair,  too  wise,  wisely  too  fair. 
To  merit  bliss  by  making  me  despair.  .  .  . 

In  the  next  talk  with  Benvolio  which  occurs  a 
scene  or  two  later  we  get  a  little  more  informa- 
tion.    Benvolio  says: 

At  this  same  ancient  feast  of  Capulet's 
Sups  the  fair  Rosaline  whom  thou  so  lovest. 
With  all  the  admired  beauties  of  Verona: 
Go  thither;  and,  with  unattainted  eye. 
Compare  her  face  with  some  that  I  shall  show. 
And  I  will  make  thee  think  thy  swan  a  crow. 

In  this  "  crow  "  we  have  the  first  allusion  to 
Mary  Fitton's  black  hair  and  eyes.  Benvolio 
says  a  little  later: 

Tut,  you  saw  her  fair,  none  else  being  by  .  .  . 

But  it  is  when  Mercutio  meets  Romeo  that  we 
get  Rosaline's  picture,  a  snapshot,  so  to  speak: 

I  conjure  thee  by  Rosaline's  bright  eyes. 
By   her   high    forehead,   and   her    scarlet   lip, 
By  her  fine  foot,  straight  leg  .  .  . 
75 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

and    so    forth.      Mercutio    completed    this    first 
sketch  a  little  later: 

Ah,  that  same  pale  hard-hearted  wench,  that  Rosaline, 
Torments  him  so,  that  he  will  sure  run  mad. 

and  again: 

Alas  poor  Romeo !  he  is  already  dead ;  stabbed 
With  a  white  wench's  black  eye.  .  .  . 

We  get  nothing  more  in  this  play,  but  as  I 
have  shown  elsewhere,  this  photograph  is  in 
itself  astonishing.  Shakespeare  indulges  very 
rarely  in  this  physical  portraiture  of  women  or 
men.  We  have  a  phrase  or  two  about  Falstaff's 
appearance,  a  vague  word  or  two  about  Ham- 
let's; just  a  word  about  Julia's  yellow  hair  and 
"  high  "  forehead,  but  nothing  at  all  as  complete 
as  this  snapshot  of  Shakespeare's  ''  dark  lady  " 
with  her  high  forehead,  scarlet  lips,  fine  feet, 
whitely  complexion  and  black  eyes.  Yet  Rosa- 
line, who  is  pictured  with  this  extraordinary  par- 
ticularity, has  nothing  to  do  with  the  play,  never 
appears  in  fact  upon  the  stage,  and  is  described 
by  secondary  characters.  The  explanation  of 
these  strange  facts  is  that  we  have  here  the  first 
realistic  portrait  of  Shakespeare's  mistress,  Mary 
Fitton. 

But  how,  one  will  ack,  did  he  leave  his  love 
76 


Juliet:  Portia:  Beatrice:  Rosalind:   Viola 

Rosaline  with  a  mere  passing  mention  or  so  to 
paint  Juliet?  It  seems  to  me  evident  that  he  pic- 
tured the  outward  presentment  of  Mistress  Fit- 
ton  as  Rosaline,  but  when  he  wrote  Romeo  and 
Jidiet  he  only  knew^  her  slightly,  and  could  still  ^ 
persuade  himself  that  a  loving,  tender  soul  dwelt 
In  her  fair  body.  He  gave  his  Juliet  the  spirit 
qualities  he  believed  existed  In  Mary  FItton.  In 
no  other  way  can  I  explain  Juliet's  extravagant  | 
sensuality,  which  we  noticed  too  In  Julia  and 
which  from  this  time  on  is  a  quality  marked  in 
nearly  all  Shakespeare's  heroines.  Early  in  their 
acquaintance  he  noticed  the  extraordinary  sen- 
suality in  Mary  FItton  and  was  attracted  by  it 
as  we  see  from  Juliet,  imagining,  no  doubt,  that  it 
I  could  be  held  to  loyalty  for  one  person.  If  this 
\.  guess  of  mine  is  correct,  it  will  explain  Juliet's 
unbridled  sensualism,  which,  as  we  shall  soon 
see,  was  allied  with  faithlessness  in  Mary  FItton, 
as  indeed  too  often  happens.  If  we  don't  accept 
this  conjecture  we  shall  find  it  difficult  to  explain 
the  fact  that  Shakespeare  has  not  given  this  ex- 
cessive sensuality  to  any  other  of  his  earlier  crea- 
tions. 

But  the  evidence  of  all  this  which  is  still  to  be 
set  forth  is  a  thousand  times  more  convincing 
than  any  inferences  that  can  be  drawn  from  the 

77 


The  fFofnen  of  Shakespeare 

realistic  picture  of  Rosaline  or  from  the  practical 
identity  of  the  two  idealistic  portraits  of  the 
same  woman  in  Julia  and  Juliet.  All  Shake- 
speare's works  from  the  time  he  was  thirty-two 
or  three  to  the  day  of  his  death  bear  the  marks 
of  his  passion  for  his  dark  mistress.  People 
seem  to  think  that  in  saying  this  I  am  making 
his  life  extraordinarily  simple;  but  the  life  of  the 
emotions  which  is  the  heart  of  life  to  a  poet,  is 
always  very  simple — a  little  vanity,  a  little  striv- 
ing, a  little  love  and  joy  and  jealousy — what 
more  is  there  in  life  for  any  of  us? 

Shakespeare  pictures  his  love,  Rosaline,  for 
us  as  very  proud  and  chastely  indifferent,  and 
photographs  her,  so  to  speak,  at  the  same  time 
with  high  forehead,  white  skin,  black  hair  and 
black  eyes. 

At  the  very  outset  he  notices  her  cold  aloof- 
ness, perhaps  due  to  pride,  perhaps  to  cunning;  a 
little  later,  her  wantonness  strikes  him,  and  at 
once  he  gives  us  two  sorts  of  portraits  of  her. 
At  first,  when  he  is  happy,  we  have  idealistic  por- 
traits such  as  Julia,  Juliet,  Portia,  Beatrice  and 
Rosalind;  when  her  lightness  wounds  him  and 
makes  him  jealous,  we  have  realistic  true  por- 
traits, such  as  the  snapshot  of  Rosaline  in  Romeo 
and  Juliet,    and  the   superb    Rosaline   again   in 

78 


Juliet:  Porika:  Beatrice:  Rosalind:   Viola 

Love's  Labour's  Lost,  But  the  same  model 
serves  always;  for  the  idealistic  pictures  he  has 
only  to  leave  out  his  mistress'  infidelity  and  lech- 
ery, and  make  her  tender,  true,  and  loving;  for 

I  the  realistic  portrait  he  has  only  to  recall  her  sen- 
sual vagrancy  and  we  have  the  hard-hearted  Ro- 
saline of  Romeo  and  Juliet  and  the  more  cruel, 
though  far  completer  portrait  of  the  same  Rosa- 

'  line  again  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost;  but  these  are 
all  manifestly  pictures  of  one  and  the  same  woman. 
Thinking  chiefly  of  sequence  In  time  I  should 
perhaps  first  study  the  Rosaline  of  Love's  La- 
bour's Lost  and  then  go  on  to  Portia,  Beatrice, 

;   Rosalind  and  Viola;  but  the  sequence  in  passion 

'  induces  me  to  put  the  Intenser  and  more  detailed 
portrait  later. 

'  First  of  all  then  let  us  get  this  Portia  Into  our 
minds,  for  this  was  how  Mary  Fitton  looked  to 
Shakespeare  In  the  early  days  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, or  he  would  hardly  have  painted  a  finer 
replica  of  Julia. 

Portia  Is  at  once  a  brilliant  and  careful  study, 
so  careful  indeed  that  It  shows  the  poet  was  still 
not  quite  sure  of  his  own  skill  In  Imaginative  por- 
traiture, but  reproduced  every  gesture  and  word 
of  his  model.  Mistress  Fitton  had  evidently 
come  to  the  theatre,  and  he  had  met  her;  he  had 

79 


The  Women  of  Shakes  .-^are 

watched  her  laughing  and  talking  condescend- 
ingly to  Kemp  the  clown  or  jesting  wittily  with 
some  of  the  young  noblemen.  Her  pride,  and 
her  familiar  ways;  her  generosity,  her  high 
spirits  and  temper  were  graven  on  his  heart.  Fie 
would  naturally  believe,  or  at  least  try  to  per- 
suade himself  that  she  was  also  tender  and  true. 
And  this  is  what  he  does. 

In  all  these  attempts  of  mine  to  show  how  the 
dramatic  author  works  and  how  in  the  case  of 
women  especially  he  gives  us  the  impression  of 
having  created  half  a  dozen  different  characters, 
whereas  in  reality  he  has  been  using  variously  a 
few  different  features  of  the  same  person,  half 
my  difficulty  comes  from  the  fact  that  the  major- 
ity of  readers  and  nearly  all  my  critics  have 
no  understanding  whatever  of  the  creative  gift. 
They  are  blinded  by  names.  Call  a  man  Mac- 
beth and  make  him  commit  murder  after  murder, 
he  is  to  them  a  cruel,  ambitious  murderer:  call  the 
same  person  Hamlet,  and  he  is  a  humane,  self- 
questioning,  melancholy  student-prince:  they  do 
not  want  to  recognize  In  the  Macbeth  they  de- 
test, the  Hamlet  they  admire  and  love;  though 
the  two  are  clearly  one  and  the  same  person. 
^  It  must  be  admitted,  also,  that  the  actor  al- 
ways   differentiates    characters    rather    by    what 

80 


Juliet:  Portia:  Beatrice:  Rosalind:  Viola 

they  do  than  by  what  they  say:  the  positions  and 
acts — the  externals — of  the  characters  are  to  the 
mummer  all  important,  not  what  they  say  and 
what  they  are.  And  the  public  are  often  deluded 
Into  accepting  the  personality  of  the  actor  or  ac- 
tress for  that  of  the  character  he  or  she  Is  sup- 
posed to  assume. 

But  In  spite  of  these  deceptive  circumstances 
It  should  be  possible  for  any  good  reader  to  con- 
vince himself  that  Portia  and  Julia  and  Juliet 
are  one  and  the  same  character.  Portia  is  the 
most  complex  of  the  three:  she  Is  a  later  study: 
Shakespeare  grows  continually  in  knowledge  of 
his  model.  Yet  if  one  put  down  all  Portia's  traits 
there  would  only  be  some  dozen  or  so  In  all.  I 
have  already  shown  that  In  two  features  she  Is 
Julia :  both  Portia  and  Julia  talk  to  their  maids 
about  their  suitors  and  plainly  show  who  is  the 
man  of  their  choice.  Julia  reproves  her  maid  for 
speaking  grossly,  and  Portia  reproves  Gratlano 
for  the  same  reason :  now  to  these  traits  let  us  add 
others.  Both  are  desperately  In  love  and  both 
are  quick  to  jealousy;  both  love  music;  both,  too, 
are  generous  In  every  sense  of  the  word,  and 
above  all  both  are  good — heart-good  and  kind. 
The  trait  Is  more  marked  In  Portia;  she  declares 
she  has   never   repented   of   a   good   deed — and 

81 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

Shakespeare  uses  his  divine  poetic  gift  to  make 
this  goodness  of  Portia  charming  to  us.  The 
candle  shines  in  the  dark,  she  says: 

Like  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

But  all  these  traits  of  Portia  are  also  noted  in 
Julia.  Julia  even  recognizes  her  rival's  good 
qualities  (not  by  any  means  an  ordinary  femi- 
nine trait)  and  does  her  faithless  lover's  service. 
How,  then,  do  the  two  differ?  Not  one  quality 
is  given  to  Portia  which  would  be  out  of  char- 
acter if  given  to  Julia.  But  there  ought  to  be 
half  a  dozen  irreconcilable  distinctions  before 
we  talk  of  difference  of  character.  The  only  dif- 
ference I  can  think  of  is  that  Portia  at  first  talks 
suggestively  to  her  maid,  while  Julia  will  not 
allow  the  maid  to  talk  suggestively  to  her.  As 
Shakespeare  got  to  know  his  model,  he  found  her 
bolder  of  speech  than  he  had  thought  seemly. 
But  this  is  only  a  difference  of  his  knowledge  and 
not  a  difference  in  the  nature  of  the  girls,  for 
curiously  enough  Julia  shows  more  sensuality 
than  even  Portia.  Of  course  I  am  alluding  to 
the  scene  in  which  after  reading  the  letter,  she 
puts  the  name  of  Proteus,  on  the  name  of  Julia, 
and  tells  them  to 

.  .  .  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  will. 
82 


Juliet:  Portia:  Beatrice:  Rosalind:   Viola 

Clearly  these  two  girls  are  one  and  the  same  per- 
son, or  rather  as  I  have  said,  the  one  girl  has 
been  the  model  for  both  pictures,  of  which  Por- 
tia is  the  better  and  later  portrait. 

I  may  also  just  note  here  that  Portia  has  some 
traits  which  are  used  again  In  the  painting  of 
Helena  in  All's  Well:  she  has  also  traits  in  com- 
mon with  the  Rosaline  of  Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

A  good  adversary  might  urge  that  I  have  still 
not  convinced  him.  Shakespeare's  love,  Rosa- 
line, he  might  say,  like  the  "  dark  lady  "  of  the 
sonnets  has  a  white  skin  and  black  hair  and 
black  eyes;  whereas  this  Julia  describes  herself 
as  having  yellow  hair  and  grey-blue  eyes:  and 
Portia  also  has  golden  hair.  How  can  these  dif- 
ferences be  explained?  Every  dramatic  writer 
know^s  that  such  physical  differences  count  for 
less  than  similarity  of  temperament.  As  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci  says:  "  For  the  form  we  go  to 
Nature  and  use  observation,  for  the  soul  we  look 
Into  our  own  hearts."  Shakespeare  may  not  have 
wished  at  first  to  be  detected  in  painting  his  love 
over  and  over  again  in  every  drama.  Accord- 
ingly, while  he  describes  her  nature  In  Julia  and 
Portia  and  Idealizes  her,  he  gives  her  now  yellow 
hair  and  grey-blue  eyes,  and  now  golden  hair  In- 
stead of  black.   But  when  he  has  to  show  what  she 

S3 


The  IFomen  oj  Shakespeare 

is  and  how  she  speaks,  he  cannot  help  betraying 
himself  by  painting  continually  the  woman  he  loves. 

Such  identity  of  character  in  various  heroines  is 
only  to  be  explained  by  Ignorance  or  by  a  pas- 
sionate obsession.  Everyone  has  seen  a  pair  of 
sisters  who  are  very  much  alike.  So  long  as  you 
don't  know  them,  you  take  them  for  twins,  but  as 
soon  as  you  know  them,  you  begin  to  wonder  at 
your  former  blindness;  they  differ  In  a  hundred 
ways.  In  a  short  time  you  see  that  they  are  not 
even  like  each  other.  With  a  little  trouble  you 
could  enumerate  a  hundred  differences  of  face  and 
form,  and  the  same  observation  holds  true  In 
stronger  measure  with  regard  to  the  mind.  It  Is 
only  ignorance  that  sees  Identity.  No  two  leaves 
of  an  oak  tree  are  alike,  much  less  two  sister 
minds:  looked  at  Intently  they  differ  In  every  re- 
spect. Let's  be  honest  with  ourselves.  Portia 
even  Is  a  very  rudimentary  and  simple  study. 
She  is  not  to  be  compared  for  complexity  with 
Charles  Reade's  Margaret.  Portia's  beauty  and 
magic  are  In  Shakespeare's  poetry,  and  not  In 
his  revelation  of  her  character.  What  traits  she 
does  possess  are  those  of  Julia  and  Juliet. 

The  Important  thing  to  remember  Is  that  not- 
withstanding the  success  of  the  picture  Shake- 
sgeare  has  not  given  us  in  Portia  the  heart  of  his 

84 


Juliet:  Portia:  Beatrice:  Rosalind:   Viola 

mistress:  trait  after  trait  he  marks  but  no  faults; 
the  figure  casts  no  shadow  and  is  therefore  in  so 
far  unreal.  We  never  know  Portia  as  we  know, 
for  instance,  the  Nurse  in  Romeo  and  Juliet. 
The  truth,  of  course,  is  that  Portia  is  only  half 
the  woman;  Mary  Fitton's  lecherous,  change- 
loving  temperament  which  is  the  natural  com- 
plement of  Portia's  passionate  sensuality  and 
love  of  suggestive  talk  is  not  only  ignored,  but  is 
transmuted  into  tender  loyalty  and  devotion. 
Portia's  humility,  too,  and  her  desire  to  be  mar- 
ried are  merely  usual  maiden  qualities,  and  not 
borrowed  from  Mistress  Fitton,  consequently  the 
soul-painting  is  not  only  superficial,  but  a  little 
unsteady  and  unsatisfactory. 

When  Shakespeare  next  uses  this  model  in  Bea- 
trice *  he  has  become  familiar  with  it  and  gets 
closer  to  it  and  to  life;  he  gives  Beatrice  fewer 
traits  than  he  accumulated  in  Portia,  but  the  art 
is  more  masterly,  the  deep-graven  features  count 
doubly,  and  Beatrice — thanks  at  first  to  her 
scornful,  teasing  self-assurance  and  later  to  her 
passionate  defence  of  Hero,  her  bitter  condemna- 
tion of  Claudio,  and  the  high,  imperious  spirit 
she   shows   to   Benedick    ("Kill   Claudio!"    she 

*  Coleridge  noticed  that  Beatrice  and  Julia  were  very  much 
alike. 

S5 


The  Women   of  Shakespeare 

cries  to  him) — lives  for  us  more  clearly,  more 
vitally  than  Portia  herself.  Beatrice  has  been 
given  Mary  FItton's  desperate,  passionate  temper 
("  I  would  eat  his  heart  In  the  market-place,"  Is 
her  word)  and  Mary  FItton's  proud  self-centred- 
ness  Instead  of  Portia's  humility  and  cheap  desire 
to  be  married,  and  the  realistic,  natural  traits 
taken  from  the  great  model,  lend  pulsing  blood 
to  Benedick's  mistress:  she  Is  a  finer,  truer  pic- 
ture of  Mary  FItton  than  Juliet  or  Portia. 

Beatrice  Is  a  far  better  portrait  even  than  Ro- 
salind. As  Shakespeare  created  Beatrice  with 
Portia's  wit  and  vivacity  adding  deep  shadows 
of  extravagant  pride  and  temper,  so  he  created 
Rosalind  with  Portia's  love  and  tenderness  add- 
ing merely  touches  of  archness,  but  the  too  great 
sweet  Is  Inclined  to  cloy.  How  hard  put  to  It 
Shakespeare  Is  to  differentiate  between  his  hero- 
ines, or  even  to  find  an  Individual  trait  (not  bor- 
rowed from  his  mistress)  for  any  one  of  them, 
can  be  seen  In  this  Rosalind.  She  Is  very  loving, 
generous,  and  Impatient  as  are  Julia,  Juliet  and 
Portia.  It  Is  the  same  nature  without  the  sug- 
gestive speech,  though  Rosalind,  too,  thinks  that 
"  time  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid  between  the 
contract  of  her  marriage  and  the  day  it  Is  sol- 
emnized." 

86 


Juliet:  Portia:  Beatrice:  Rosalind:   Viola 

Her  famous  talk  of  love  In  the  third  act  be- 
trays Shakespeare's  method.  In  Much  Ado  he 
makes  Benedick  talk  of  love  with  Don  Pedro, 
who  says  that  he  will  see  him  look  pale  with 
love. 

Benedick  answers :  Rosalind  says  : 

With  anger,  with  sick-  Love  is  merely  a  mad- 
ness, or  with  hunger,  my  ness,  and  I  tell  you,  de- 
lord,  not  with  love:  prove  serves  as  well  a  dark  house 
that  ever  I  lose  more  blood  and  a  whip  as  madmen  do ; 
with  love  than  I  will  get  and  the  reason  why  they 
again  with  drinking,  pick  are  not  so  punished  and 
out  mine  eyes  with  a  bal-  cured  is,  that  the  lunacy  is 
lad-monger's  pen  and  so  ordinary  that  the  whip- 
hang  me  up  at  the  door  pers  are  in  love  too.  Yet  I 
of  a  brothel-house  for  the  profess  curing  it  by  coun- 
sign  of  blind  Cupid.  sel. 

That   is,   Shakespeare  gives   his   own  thought 

now  to  Benedick,  now  to  Rosalind.    But  the  words 

that  live  and  throb  and  burn  for  us  in  his  women 

characters   are   always   derived   from  his   "  dark 

lady,"  his  own  passion  coming  to  utterance  again 

and    again.      For    instance,     Rosalind    reproves 

Phebe,  Phebe  who  scorns  Sllvius — and  this  is  the 

way  she  does  it.     Every  word  lives,  because  every 

word  is  really  addressed  by  Shakespeare  to  his 

scornful  mistress : 

.   .   .  What  though  you  have  no  beauty, — 
As,  by  my  faith,  I  see  no  more  in  you. 
Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed — 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless  }  .  .  .  . 

87 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

"  Proud  and  pitiless  "  is  appropriate  when  ad- 
dressed to  the  scornful  maid-of-honour,  the 
"dark  lady"  of  the  sonnets;  but  verges  on  the 
ridiculous  when  used  to  the  shepherdess.  Then, 
too,  we  have  the  portrait  of  the  maid-of-honour; 
for  Rosalind  goes  on: 

'Tis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk  hair. 
Your  bugle  eyeballs,  nor  your  cheek  of  cream. 
That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship.  .  .  . 

Surely  this  is  Rosaline  again  whom  Mercutio 
spoke  of  as  the  "  white  wench  "  with  the  "  black 
eyes."  Rosalind  proceeds  to  scold  Silvius  and 
then  Phebe : 

You  are  a  thousand  times  a  properer  man 
Than  she  a  woman:  'tis  such  fools  as  you 
That  makes  the  world  full  of  ill-favoured  children. 
'Tis  not  her  glass^  but  yuu^  that  flatters  her.   .   .  . 
But,  mistress  know  yourself:  down  on  your  knees 
And  thank  heaven,  fasting,  for  a  good  man's  love: 
For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear. 
Sell  when  you  can :  you  are  not  for  all  markets. 
Cry  the  man  mercy;  love  him;  take  his  offer: 
Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scoffer.  .  .  . 

How  often  in  his  heart  did  Shakespeare  cry  to 
Mary  Fitton:  "You  are  the  light  of  the  world 
to  me,  but  to  me  only:  you  are  not  for  all  markets. 
I  am  a  thousand  times  a  properer  man  than  you  a 
woman**     The  fact  that  Phebe  falls  in  love  with 

88 


Juliet:  Portia:  Beatrice:  Rosalind:   Viola 

the  youth  who  scolds  and  despises  her,  shows  that 
Shakespeare  even  when  most  In  love  knew  a  good 
deal  about  the  "  madding  fever." 

The  whole  tirade  Is  astonishing  In  Its  realistic 
passion,  and  Its  truth  makes  Rosalind  live  for  us 
In  spite  of  the  fact  that  otherwise  her  character  Is 
very  poorly  drawn.  For  the  heart  of  the  matter 
Is  that  there  are  no  faults  at  all  In  her,  and  there- 
fore In  spite  of  the  fact  that  her  portrait  Is  by 
far  the  more  elaborate  of  the  two,  Beatrice  with 
her  Imperious,  desperate  temper  (borrowed  from 
Mary  FItton)   Is  the  more  convincing  creation. 

In  so  far  as  Viola  has  any  character  at  all  she 
rather  resembles  Ophelia  In  patient  resignation. 
When  Twelfth  Night  was  written,  Shakespeare 
was  beginning  to  take  a  more  serious  view  of 
life.  The  three  comedies  we  are  now  consider- 
ing, Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  As  You  Like  It 
and  Twelfth  Night,  all  belong  to  the  honeyed 
summer-time  of  Shakespeare's  life  when  his 
faculties  had  reached  maturity  and  yet  were  ex- 
ercised with  the  ease  and  joy  that  tell  of  youth? 
ful  hope  and  vigour.  They  were  all  written  be- 
tween 1598  and  1600;  in  the  first  sweet  years  of 
his  love  for  Mary  FItton,  when  he  was  still  under 
the  spell  of  her  proud,  witty,  and  self-confident 
beauty  and  could  still  persuade  himself  that  at 

89 


The  JVoinen   of  Shakespeare 

least  she  loved  him  better  than  she  loved  any  one 
else,  and  might  yet  love  him  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  other  men.  About  this  time  he  says  in  a 
sonnet : 

For  well  thou  know'st  to  my  dear  doting  heart 
Thou  art  the  fairest  and  most  precious  jewel. 


90 


CHAPTER   y 

THE  GREAT  PHOTOGRAPH  OF   HIS   LOVE:  LOVE's 

labour's  lost:  Rosaline  again 

T  MUST  now  turn  from  these  Idealistic  por- 
traits  of  Mary  FItton  and  retrace  my  steps 
a  year  or  two  In  order  to  study  the  first  great 
realistic  portrait  which  Shakespeare  painted  of 
his  mistress.  The  likeness  of  Rosaline  In  Love's 
Labour's  Lost  Is  bitten  In  for  us  with  the  acid  of 
jealous  passion.  Minor  poets  and  literary  dilet- 
tanti, such  as  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  have  found  In 
this  fact  a  reason  to  reject  my  whole  story.  If 
Shakespeare,  they  argue,  had  Indeed  discovered 
as  early  as  Christmas  1597  (when  Love's  La- 
bour's Lost  was  revised)  that  his  love  was  faith- 
less to  him  (and  we  will  call  her  Mistress  Mary 
FItton  to  please  Mr.  Harris's  childish  need  of 
names),  how  Is  It  that  afterwards  In  1598  and 
1599  he  climbed  the  heights  of  joy  In  the  three 
great  comedies.  Much  Ado,  As  You  Like  It,  and 
Twelfth  Night? 

The   objection   only   shows   where   my   critics 
91 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

stand.  Life  appears  to  be  a  closed  door  to  nine 
out  of  ten  of  them.  They  have  no  experience  of 
passion  whatever;  no  more  knowledge  of  love 
apparently  than  if  they  had  no  hearts  at  all. 

Mary  FItton  changed  the  world  for  Shake- 
speare; gave  him  golden  days  of  tenderness  and 
divine  hours  of  delight.  True,  he  found  out 
very  quickly  that  she  was  a  wanton;  but  that  did 
not  diminish  the  sweetness  of  her  kisses  to  him. 
Probably  even,  gentle  as  he  was,  it  intensiiied 
his  passion.  And  when  she  was  faithless  to  him 
he  grew  wild  with  rage  and  jealousy.  This  sharp 
alternation  of  joy  and  bitterness,  idealistic  ad- 
miration and  realistic  contempt;  this  ebb  and 
flow  is  the  very  sign  of  a  supreme  passion,  Its 
mark  and  method.  In  due  course  we  shall  find 
that  these  alternations  gradually  waned  out  In  the 
course  of  years  Into  an  ever-increasing  bitterness. 

Let  me  now  go  back  and  consider,  feature  by 
feature,  the  first  great  photograph  of  Shake- 
peare's  mistress.  She  appears  in  Lovers  La- 
bourns  Lost  and  Is  again  called  Rosaline.  This 
Rosaline  is  described  In  the  comedy  with  such 
particularity;  we  are  given  so  many  details  both 
of  body  and  soul,  that  it  Is  impossible  to  doubt 
the  sincerity  and  fidelity  of  the  portrait.  I  have 
already  pointed  out  that  for  fewer  and  weaker 

92 


Lovers  Labour  s  Lost:  Rosaline  Again 

^  reasons,  one  is  compelled  to  believe  that  the  pic- 
jture  of  Rosaline  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  a  snap- 
v^hot,   so  to   speak,   of   Mary  Fitton.      A   dozen 
rpeculiarities,    such   as   a   white   complexion,   high 
forehead  and  black  hair  and  eyes   for  the  out- 
ward, and  hardness  of  heart,  word-wit,  and  a  dis- 
position to  torture  her  lover  for  the  spirit,  are 
enough  traits  when  taken  together  with  other  pe- 
culiar  features,   to    establish   her   identity.      But 
here  we  have  not  a  dozen  peculiarities  as  in  the 
case  of  Rosaline  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  but  a  hun- 
dred, and  all  astonishing. 

I  shall  make  no  excuse  for  carrying  these  in- 
vestigations into  minute  details  and  repetitions, 
for  this  is  the  heart  of  my  study,  and  I  want  to 
convince  the  fair-minded  reader  that  on  this  point 
doubt  is  impossible.  And  even  here  I  must  skip 
almost  as  many  proofs  as  I  shall  use. 

First  of  all  let  us  fix  the  date.  Lovers  La- 
bourns  Lost  was  revised  and  expanded  by  Shake- 
speare most  carefully  for  a  performance  before 
the  Queen  at  Whitehall  w^hich  took  place  as  a 
part  of  the  Christmas  festivities  in  1597.  The 
figures  of  BIron  and  Rosaline  were  then  no 
doubt  redrawn  and  their  relations  defined. 

Biron,  as  I  have  show^n  elsewhere,  is  an  excel- 
lent portrait  of  Shakespeare  himself;  but  there  is 


The  JFomen  of  Shakespeare 

very  little  characterization  in  the  other  person- 
ages. The  king  and  his  lords  are  all  witty,  amor- 
ous, talkative;  in  fact  more  or  less  mouthpieces 
of  the  poet.  The  Princess  of  France,  and  her 
ladies,  are  not  differenced  In  any  way;  they  are 
mere  lay  figures  to  show  off  Shakespeare's  wit. 
The  puerility  of  the  character-drawing  is  ex- 
traordinary, except  in  the  case  of  Biron  and  still 
more  in  that  of  Rosaline,  who  is  pictured  to  the 
finger-tips. 

Rosaline  is  made  to  praise  Biron,  before  he 
appears,  as  a  merry  man  and  a  most  excellent 
talker;  and  when  they  m.eet  they  indulge  in  a 
tourney  of  wit,  in  which  Rosaline  more  than 
holds  her  own,  showing  indeed  astounding  self- 
assurance,  spiced  with  a  little  contempt  of  Biron; 
\^Mercutio  called  her,  it  will  be  remembered, 
"  hard-hearted."  Every  word  in  this  first  en- 
counter deserves  to  be  weighed. 

Biron.   Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once.'* 
Ros.   Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once? 
Biron.   I  know  you  did. 

Ros.  How  needless  was  it  then  to  ask  the  question ! 
Biron.  You  must  not  be  so  quick. 

Ros.   'Tis  'long  of  you  that  spur  me  with  such  questions. 
Biron.  Your  wit's  too  hot,  it  speeds  too  fast,  'twill  tire. 
Ros.   Not  till  it  leave  the  rider  in  the  mire. 
Biron.  What  time  o'  day  ?  }, 

Ros.  The  hour  that  fools  should  ask.  f 

94 


Lovers  Labour  s  Lost:  Rosaline  Again 

BmoN.  Now  fair  befall  your  mask ! 
Ros.  Fair  fall  the  face  it  covers ! 
BiRON.  And  send  you  many  lovers  ! 
Ros.  Amen,  so  you  be  none. 
BiRON.  Nay,  then  will  I  be  gone. 

This  Is  surely  the  same  Rosaline  whom  Romeo 
describes  for  us: 

.  .  .  She'll  not  be  hit 
With  Cupid's  arrow;  she  hath  Dian's  wit. 

The  parting  of  the  two  is  a  replica  of  their 
meeting,  and  need  not  be  reproduced.  Rosaline 
shows  herself  as  witty  as  Biron,  but  while  Shake- 
speare-Biron  makes  up  to  her,  she  scorns  him. 
Biron  retires,  but  before  he  goes  off  altogether, 
he  cannot  help  questioning  the  French  lord 
Boyet  about  Rosaline  and  the  three  or  four 
points  of  similarity  which  we  have  already  no- 
ticed are  materially  increased: 

Biron.  What's  her  name  in  the  cap.f* 

BoYET.  Rosaline,  by  good  hap. 

Biron.  Is  she  wedded  or  no? 

Boyet.  To  her  will,  sir,  or  so. 

Now  this  "  to  her  will,  sir,  or  so  "  might  have 
been  taken  from  the  sonnets.  The  "  dark  lady  " 
of  the  sonnets  was  "  rich  in  will,"  we  know.  Son- 
net 135  begins: 

Whoever  hath  her  wish,  thou  hast  thy  Will, 
And  Will  to  boot    and  Will  in  overplus. 
95 


The  JVomen  of  Shakespeare 

Now  In  the  play  this  touch  Is  extraordinarily 
significant,  for  Shakespeare's  maids  are  not  usu- 
ally wedded  to  their  "  will  "  In  any  sense,  much 
less  In  the  various  senses  in  which  he  uses  the 
word  /'will";  for  Shakespeare  understands 
"  will  "  in  the  usual  sense  and  also  In  the  sense  of 
desire  and  of  course  as  a  proper  name. 

The  next  time  we  meet  Biron  in  the  play  we 
find  that  he  has  written  a  sonnet  to  Rosaline  and 
this  Is  the  way  he  describes  her  to  Costard: 

When  tongues  speak  sweetly,  then  they  name  her  name. 
And  Rosaline  they  call  her ;  ask  for  her. 

In  fact,  Shakespeare  takes  care  to  explain  to 
us  why  he  has  selected  this  name  Rosaline  for  his 
love  In  two  different  plays. 

We  are  told,  too,  that  BIron  gives  Costard  a 
shilling  for  carrying  the  sonnet,  a  sum  about 
equivalent  to  ten  shillings  of  our  money.  Biron 
was  evidently  as  free-handed  as  Shakespeare 
himself. 

As  soon  as  Costard  goes  off  after  receiving,  as 
he  says,  "  'leven  pence  farthing  better "  than 
what  he  regards  as  "  remuneration,"  BIron  in- 
dulges In  a  long  characteristic  soliloquy: 

And  I,  forsooth  in  love !  I,  that  have  been  love's  whip ; 
A  very  beadle  to  a  humorous  sigh;  .... 

96 


I 


Lovers  Labour  s  Lost:  Rosaline  Again 

and  so  on  for  a  dozen  lines  or  more :  then  again 
he  exclaims : 

What !  I  love !  I  sue !  I  seek  a  wife ! 

A  woman,  that  is  like  a  German  clock.  .  .  . 

And  so  on  and  on. 

All  this  is  eminently  and  peculiarly  character- 
istic of  young  Shakespeare.  A  little  before  this 
he  was  a  lord  of  love,  taming  shrews  and  making 
his  heroines  run  after  his  vagrant  heroes :  now 
the  inconstant  hero  himself  is  limed  hand  and 
foot  and  strives  in  vain  to  free  himself. 

What  does  Biron  think  of  his  charmer?  He 
tells  us  in  a  monologue,  and  uses  words  so  unex- 
pected, so  out  of  keeping  with  the  play  that  we 
are  compelled  to  regard  them  as  a  deliberate 
painting  by  Shakespeare  of  his  mistress  at  this 
time,  when  he  is  evidently  vexed  by  her  coldness 
or  unfaithfulness.     Biron  says: 

Nay,  to  be  perjured,  which  is  worst  of  all; 
And,  among  three,  to  love  the  worst  of  all ; 
A  whitely  wanton  with  a  velvet  brow. 
With  two  pitch-balls  stuck  in  her  face  for  eyes; 
Ay,  and,  by  heaven,  one  that  v/ill  do  the  deed 
Though  Argus  were  her  eunuch  and  her  guard: 
And  I  to  sigh  for  her !  to  watch  for  her ! 
To  pray  for  her !  Go  to ;  it  is  a  plague 
That  Cupid  will  impose  for  my  neglect 
Of  his  almighty  dreadful  little  might. 
Well,  I  will  love,  write,  sigh,  pray,  sue  and  groan: 
Some  men  must  love  my  body  and  some  Joan. 
97 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

Shakespeare,  as  we  know,  was  "  perjured  "  In 
loving  Mary  FItton,  for  he  was  already  married 
and  he  makes  the  same  accusation  against  him- 
self in  sonnet  152,  where  he  calls  himself,  "  per- 
jured." But  the  identification  of  BIron  with 
Shakespeare,  is  not  so  astonishing  as  this  de- 
scription of  the  ''  dark  lady,"  Mary  FItton. 
First  of  all,  among  the  three  maidens  of  the  prin- 
cess, BIron  says  he  loves  "  the  worst  of  all." 
This  brings  us  up  with  a  jerk.  We  had  thought 
all  the  ladles  good;  besides  a  man  as  a  rule  be- 
lieves his  love  Is  best  of  all,  but  BIron  describes 
Rosaline  as  ''  the  worst  of  all."  This  is  a  blot 
on  the  play.  It  diminishes  our  interest  in  Rosa- 
line as  a  heroine  and  In  BIron  and  In  the  play. 
But  BIron  not  only  asserts  plainly  that  his  love 
Is  a  wanton,  which  a  man  would  hardly  confess 
to  himself,  but  he  repeats  the  charge  and  black- 
ens it: 

Ay,  and,  by  heaven,  one  that  will  do  the  deed 
Though  Argus*  were  her  eunuch  and  her  guard. 

All  the  characteristics  of  Rosaline  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet  are  here  repeated  with  emphasis  and  with 
completer  knowledge.     And  the  spiritual  Identi- 

*  In  the  pretended  quarrel  in  the  last  act  of  The  Merchant 
of  Venice  Portia  warns  Bassanio  that  she  is  not  to  be  trusted; 
Lie  not  a  night  from  home:  watch  me  hke  Argus. 

98 


Lovers  Labour  s  Lost:  Rosaline  Again 

ficatlon   is   not   more   complete   than   the   bodily 
Identification. 

Mercutio  tells  us  that  Rosaline  was  "  a  white 
wench  "  with  "  black  eyes  ";  BIron  describes  her 
here  as: 


A  whitely  wanton  with  a  velvet  brow. 

With  two  pitch-balls  stuck  in  her  face  for  eyes. 

Rosalind's  words  In  As  You  Like  It,  Act  III, 
scene  v,  are  just  as  precise: 

'Tis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk  hair, 
Your  bugle  eyeballs,  nor  your  cheek  of  cream.  .  .  . 

And  soon  we  shall  see  from  sonnet  127  that 
Shakespeare  describes  his  dark  mistress  In  the 
same  way: 


.  .  .  my  mistress'  brows  are  raven  black, 
Her  eyes  so  suited,  and  they  mourners  seem. 

As  we  have  already  remarked,  Shakespeare 
has  not  painted  any  character  for  us  in  any  play 
with  this  photographic  exactitude.  Such  paint- 
ing, too.  Is  totally  out  of  place  In  a  play.  The 
contrast,  moreover,  between  this  detailed  bodily 
description  of  Rosaline  and  the  other  characters 
IS  extraordinary.  No  other  character  In  the  play 
is  described  at  all.     They  are  mere  witty,  heed- 

99 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

less,  playful,  lay  figures,  but  Biron  lives  for  us, 
though  we  don't  know  what  he  was  like  physi- 
cally, but  we  know  this  Rosaline  already  as  if  we 
had  met  her,  as  if  she  were  one  of  our  intimates. 
Among  the  lifeless  masks  she  fairly  startles  us 
with  her  living,  breathing  reality. 

Now  all  these  extraordinary  particulars  com- 
bine to  prove  that  in  Biron  and  Rosaline  we  have 
speaking  portraits  of  Shakespeare  and  his  love, 
Mary  Fitton.  The  effect  of  each  piece  of  evi- 
dence is  cumulative  and  the  weight  of  each  piece 
is  enormously  increased  by  its  peculiarity.  I 
venture  to  say  that  the  person  who  can  still  doubt 
is  incapable  of  weighing  evidence  and  the  mul- 
tiple effect  of  such  details. 

Another  circumstance  makes  this  cruel  photo- 
graph of  Rosaline  more  interesting  still  to  us. 
This  play  was  given  at  Whitehall,  Christmas, 
1597.  Mary  Fitton  would  almost  certainly  be 
among  the  ladies  of  Elizabeth's  court  who  list- 
ened to  it.  Shakespeare  and  his  fellows  would 
be  playing  in  it;  perhaps,  indeed,  Shakespeare 
himself  took  the  part  of  Biron  and  described 
Mary  Fitton  to  her  face  so  exactly  that  many 
persons  must  have  recognized  her  and  understood 
both  his  love  for  her  and  the  accusation  he 
brought  against  her.     The  only  possible  explana- 

100 


Lovers  Labour  s  Lost:  Rosaline  Again 

tion  is  twofold.  First  of  all  Shakespeare's  pas- 
sioiji  had  already  reached  the  intensity  of  a  sex- 
duel.  His  mistress  had  tormented  him  so  that 
he  delights  in  calling  her  "  wanton  "  to  her  face 
in  public,  when  one  would  have  expected  from 
the  gentle  Shakespeare  all  sorts  of  high-flown 
compliments  and  endearing  courtesies.  The  sec- 
ond part  of  the  explanation  is  no  less  certain;  in 
the  court  at  that  time  the  accusation  of  lightness 
brought  against  a  maid-of-honour  must  have 
been  taken  very  lightly.  Shakespeare  is  so  hurt 
that  he  cannot  help  telling  the  truth  about  his 
mistress;  *  it  will  not  be  regarded,  however,  as  a 
dishonouring  charge,  but  a  charge  at  which  one 
laughs,  much  in  the  same  way  as  one  would  laugh 
to-day,  if  a  girl  were  accused  of  being  overfond 
of  dancing.  When  Mary  Fitton,  a  little  later, 
bore  an  illegitimate  child  to  Lord  William  Her- 
bert the  affair  was  apparently  passed  over  with 
indifference;  she  was  not  dismissed  or  disgraced, 
as  with  our  ideas  we  might  have  expected.  But 
though  in  that  court  an  accusation  of  wantonness 
would  merely  cause  amusement,  Shakespeare 
used  it  seriously;  he  meant  to   wound  with  it. 

*  In  sonnet  140  he  warns  her  not  to  drive  him  to  despair  or 
...  I  should  grow  mad 
And  in  my  madness  might  speak  ill  of  thee. 

101 


The  JFomen  oj  Shakespeare 

Nothing  could  show  the  extremity  of  his  passion 
more  clearly. 

Now  we  come  almost  immediately  to  another 
series  of  proofs.  Shakespeare  at  thirty-three  was 
one  of  the  best  heads  in  the  world.  He  knew 
perfectly  well  when  he  had  made  things  clear  to 
us,  and  when  he  repeats  the  same  features  again 
and  again  with  needless  iteration  it  is  safe  to  say 
that  he  had  some  personal  reason  for  it.  It  is 
not  a  merit  in  dramatic  art;  but  here,  though  he 
has  already  painted  Rosaline  for  us  with  heavy 
brush-strokes,  giving  an  infatuated  young  man's 
opinion  of  her  in  the  harshest  words,  he  goes  on 
to  repeat  the  strokes  again  and  again  and  again, 
as  he  never  repeats  them  in  any  other  play.  His 
desire  to  expose  his  mistress  is  so  extraordinary 
that  It  has  the  same  effect  as  If  he  had  resolved  to 
tell  us  that  this  Rosaline  was  the  one  love  of  his 
life  and  she  was  a  harlot. 

The  next  time  we  meet  Rosaline  she  has  a  bout 
of  word-fence  with  the  French  lord  Boyet,  just 
as  she  has  had  twice  already  with  Biron,  and  this 
time  the  contest  of  wits  ends  suggestively: 

Ros.  Thou  canst  not  hit  it^,  hit  it,  hit  it. 

Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  my  good  man. 
Boyet.  An  I  cannot,  cannot,  cannot. 

An  I  cannot,  another  can.  .  .  . 
102 


Lovers  Labour  s  Lost:  Rosaline  Again 

This  merry  and  suggestive  riposte  no  doubt 
brought  down  the  house,  for  the  suggestion  is 
carried  still  further  in  the  remainder  of  the 
scene.  Here  we  have  the  explanation  of  the  ex= 
traordinary  and  confessed  sensuality  of  Julia, 
Juliet,  Portia  and  the  rest:  Mary  Fitton-Rosa- 
line  with  her  bold  speech  was  the  model. 

Tht  third  scene  of  the  fourth  act  opens  with 
a  long  soliloquy  of  Biron  which  is  astoundingly 
sincere  and  realistic. 

The  king  he  is  hunting  the  deer;  I  am  coursing  my- 
self: they  have  pitched  a  toil;  I  am  toiling  in  a  pitch, — 
pitch  that  defiles:  defile!  a  foul  word.  Well,  set  thee 
down,  sorrow!  for  so  they  say  the  fool  said,  and  so  say 
I,  and  I  the  fool:  well  proved,  wit!  By  the  Lord,  this 
love  is  as  mad  as  Ajax;  it  kills  sheep;  it  kills  me,  I  a 
sheep :  well  proved  again  o'  my  side !  I  will  not  love :  if 
I  do,  hang  me;  i'  faith,  I  will  not.  O,  but  her  eye, — 
by  this  light,  but  for  her  eye,  I  would  not  love  her ;  yes, 
for  her  two  eyes.  Well,  I  do  nothing  in  the  world  but 
lie,  and  lie  in  my  throat.  By  heaven  I  do  love;  and  it 
hath  taught  me  to  rhyme,  and  to  be  melancholy;  and 
here  is  part  of  my  rhyme,  and  here  my  melancholy. 
Well,  she  hath  one  o'  my  sonnets  already:  the  clown 
bore  it,  the  fool  sent  it,  and  lady  hath  it:  sweet  clown, 
sweeter  fool,  sweetest  lady !  .  .  . 

One  has  only  to  look  at  this  to  see  how  the 
touches  already  given  are  multiplied.     Biron  be- 
!  gins  with  a  word-play  on  "  pitch,"  plainly  taking 
I  us  back  to  his  "  whitely  wanton:  " 

With  two  pitch-balls  stuck  in  her  face  for  eywi. 
103 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

Then  this  soliloquy  with  its  expression  *'  de- 
file "  and  "  foul  word "  reminds  us  of  sonnet 
148,  where  he  speaks  of  his  mistress'  "  foul 
faults."  This  Biron  rages  against  himself  as  no 
doubt  Shakespeare  raged:  "I  will  not  love;" 
but  it  is  her  eyes  that  make  him  love,  those  black 
eyes  that  he  talks  of  again  and  again  in  the  very 
first  sonnet  (127)  addressed  to  his  "  dark  lady  " ; 
the  eyes  he  compares  to  that  *'  full  star  that 
ushers  in  the  even." 

In  this  soliloquy,  too,  we  learn  that  Biron 
wrote  sonnets  to  Rosaline  and  sent  them  to  her, 
just  as  Shakespeare  no  doubt  sent  the  sonnets  he 
had  written  about  her  to  Mary  Fitton.  i 

Then  Biron  stands  aside  while  the  King  and 
other  gentlemen  come  in  without  seeing  him  and   j 
confess   their   love.      Biron   has   a    few  lines   of 
comment,  in  which  we  could  swear  Falstaff  was   jj 
speaking.     The  resemblance  is  so  extraordinary  jj 
that  though  it  is  outside  my  subject  for  the  mo-   j 
ment,  I  must  give  it;  when  Longaville  reads  his 
sonnet,    which   by   the   way   Is   very   brother   to 
Biron's  sonnet,  Biron  says: 


This  is  the  liver-vein,  which  makes  flesh  a  deity 
A  green  goose,  a  goddess:  pure,  pure  idolatry. 
God   amend  us,  God   amend!  we   are  much  out  o*  the 
way.  .  .  . 

104 


\ 


Lovers  Labour's  Lost:  Rosaline  Again 

i  little  later  on  this  Biron  shows  that  all  the  de- 
iiigrations  showered  on  Rosaline  are  mere  evi- 
dence of  passion.  As  soon  as  Biron's  love  is 
about  to  be  discovered,  he  avows  it  boldly,  calls 
his  mistress  "  heavenly  Rosaline  "  and  praises 
her  exactly  as  Shakespeare  afterwards  in  his 
proper  person  praises  the  "  dark  lady  "  in  the 
sonnets :  he  declares  that  every  one  must  bow 
their  vassal  heads  before  "  the  heaven  of  her 
brow  "  and  talks  about  her  ''  majesty,"  just  as 
in  sonnet  150  he  talks  about  her  "powerful 
might."  It  w^as  the  "  strength  "  of  Mary  Fit- 
ton's  personality  which  made  the  deepest  impres- 
sion on  our  poet.  The  next  moment  Biron  gives 
the  best  and  strongest  proof  of  love.  His  mis- 
tress can  stand  being  seen  as  she  is.     He  says: 

Fie  painted  rhetoric!  O  she  needs  it  not: 
To  things  of  sale  a  seller's  praise  belongs. 
She  passes  praise;  then  praise  too  short  doth  blot.  .  .  . 

In  sonnet    130,   too,   we  have  the   same  perfect 
sincerity,  the  very  habit  of  intense  passion: 

My  mistress'  eyes  are  nothing  like  the  sun; 

Coral  is  far  more  red  than  her  lips'  red: 

If  snow  be  white,  why  then  her  breasts  are  dun. 

If  hairs  be  wires,  black  wires  grow  on  her  head.  .  .  . 

The  King  then  describes  this  Rosaline  and  pro- 

105 


The  Women   of  Shakespeare 

tests  that  she  is  not  beautiful;  in  sonnet  148  we 
are  told  "  the  world  "  says  she  is  not  fair. 
The  dialogue  goes  on: 

King.     By  Heaven,  thy  love  is  black  as  ebony. 

BiRON.   Is  ebony  like  her?     O  wood  divine! 
O  wife  of  such  wood  were  felicity. 
O,  who  can  give  an  oath.'*  where  is  a  book? 
That  I  may  swear  beauty  doth  beauty  lack 
If  that  she  learn  not  of  her  eye  to  look: 
No  face  is  fair  that  is  not  full  so  black. 

King.    O  paradox !    Black  is  the  badge  of  hell. 

The  hue  of  dungeons  and  the  suit  of  night; 
And  beauty's  crest  becomes  the  heavens  well. 

BiRON.  Devils  soonest  tempt,  resembling  spirits  of  light. 
O,  if  in  black  my  lady's  brows  be  deek'd, 
It  mourns  that  painting  and  usurping  hair 
Should  ravish  doters  with  a  false  aspect; 
And  therefore  is  she  born  to  make  black  fair.  .  . 

All  this  is  exactly  like  the  sonnets:  take  the  first 
sonnet  to  the  "  dark  lady"  (127),  the  first  line 
runs: 

In  the  old  age  black  was  not  counted  fair.  .  .  . 

The  Identical  traits  are  simply  numberless  and 
are  often  of  the  very  soul.  There  Is  no  quality 
more  clearly  marked  In  Shakespeare,  not  even 
his  love  of  music  and  flowers,  than  his  contempt 
for  women  who  paint  and  make  themselves  up. 
Mary  Fitton  was  apparently  too  proud  of  her 
youth  and  too  conscious  of  her  beauty  to  use  ar- 

106 


Lovers  Labour  s  Lost:  Rosaline  Again 

tifice  to  improve  it.  We  find  the  trait  for  the 
first  time  here  in  Shakespeare-Biron.  Biron  jibes 
at  the  other  lords : 

Your  mistresses  dare  never  come  in  rain. 

For  fear  their  colours  should  be  wash'd  away.  .  .  . 

The  King  retorts: 

'Twere  good,  yours  did ;  for,  sir,  to  tell  you  plain 
I'll  find  a  fairer  face  not  wash'd  to-day. 

It  is  evident  that  Mary  Fitton  disdained  to  paint 
or  do  herself  up  or  bother  about  putting  on  false 
"  usurping  "  hair.  The  trait  appealed  intensely 
to  Shakespeare,  for  he  recurs  to  it  again  and 
again.  In  Hamlet  he  naturally  handles  it  most 
frequently  and  frankly.  Hamlet  says  to 
Ophelia : 

I  have  heard  of  your  paintings  too,  well  enough, 
God  has   given   you  one   face  and   you  make   yourself* 
another.  ... 

and  again  at  the  end: 

Let  her  paint  an  inch  thick,  to  this  favour  she  must  come. 

In  Measure  for  Measure  Shakespeare  goes  a 
little  further: 

Your  whores,  sir,  .  .  .  using  painting. 
Do  prove  my  occupation  a  mystery; 

107 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

and  in  Timon  further  still:  Timon  tells  Phrynia 
and  Timandra  to  paint  till : 

...  a  horse  may  mire  upon  your  face. 

The  love  of  truth  and  simplicity  abode  with 
Shakespeare  to  the  end. 

In  the  time  of  Elizabeth  it  was  the  custom  for 
all  poets  and  courtiers  to  praise  red  hair  and  a 
fair  complexion  as  flunkey-compliments  to  the 
Queen;  but  covered  by  the  cloak  of  anonymity, 
Shakespeare  will  prove  to  us  that  he  thinks  his 
mistress'  black  hair  more  beautiful  than  red. 
This  passage  is  intensely  significant  to  those  who 
understand  Shakespeare's  snobbishness.  Biron 
says  : 

Her  favour  turns  the  fashion  of  the  days. 
For  native  blood  is  counted  painting  now; 
And  therefore  red,  that  would  avoid  dispraise, 
Paints  itself  black,  to  imitate  her  brow.  .  .  . 

There  can  be  no  lingering  doubt  in  any  fair 
mind  that  in  this  Rosaline  of  Romeo  and  Juliet 
and  of  Lovers  Labour's  Lost,  Shakespeare  is  de- 
scribing his  mistress,  the  "  dark  lady "  of  the 
second  sonnet-series  and  describing  her  against 
his  custom  in  play-writing,  even  more  exactly 
than  he  described  her  in  the  lyrics.  Call  her  by 
what  name  you  will,  that  fact  at  any  rate  is  estab- 
lished. 

108 


Lovers  Labour  s  Lost:  Rosaline  Again 

Strange  to  say  her  chief  bodily  peculiarities 
are  given  far  more  precisely  in  Love's  Labour's 
Lost  than  they  are  given  in  the  sonnets,  though 
In  the  play  such  bodily  description  is  wholly  out 
of  place,  whereas  it  adds  intimacy  and  veracity 
to  the  lyric  poems.  The  explanation  of  the  ar- 
tistic blunder  Is  simple:  Love's  Labour's  Lost  is 
earlier  than  the  sonnets.  When  Shakespeare 
first  met  Mary  Fitton  he  could  not  help  describ- 
ing her  even  In  the  plays:  she  had  taken  all  his 
senses  captive. 

We  know  this  Rosaline  sufficiently,  one  would 
imagine  In  these  first  four  acts,  through  the  pas- 
sion of  BIron  and  the  descriptions  given  by  him 
and  by  the  king  and  by  the  other  gentlemen,  but  we 
are  to  have  still  another  replica  of  her  portrait, 
this  time  by  the  ladies  of  the  Princess.  Rosaline 
banters  Katharine  and  Katharine  answers  her: 

....  had  she  been  light,  like  you 
Of  such  a  merry,  nimble  stirring  spirit. 
She  might  ha'  been  a  grandam  ere  she  died: 
And  so  may  you,  for  a  light  heart  lives  long. 
Ros.      What's  your  dark  meaning,  mouse,  of  this  light 

word? 
Kath.  a  light*  condition  in  a  beauty  dark.  .  .  . 

*  Portia,  too,  plays  on  this  word  "light": 

Let  me  give  light,  but  let  me  not  be  light. 
I   mention  this  just  to   show  that  the   same   words  come  to 
Shakespeare's  mind  whenever  he  is  thinking  of  love. 

109 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

And  as  If  this  "  lightness  of  character "  in  a 
dark  beauty  had  not  been  drummed  into  us  often 
enough  it  is  repeated  again : 

Ros.      Look^  what  you  do,  you  do  it  still  i'  the  dark. 
Kath.  So  do  not  you,  for  you  are  a  light  wench.  .  .  . 

Now  this  Rosaline  tells  us  a  little  more  about 
Biron:  he  has  praised  her,  she  says,  as  if  she 
were  the  fairest  goddess: 

I  am  compared  to  twenty  thousand  fairs. 

O,  he  hath  drawn  my  picture  in  his  letter ! 
Prin.  Anything  like? 
Ros.     Much  in  the  letters;  nothing  in  the  praise.  .  .  . 

It  is  as  if  Shakespeare,  speaking  through  Rosa- 
line, had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  assure  us  that 
what  he  as  Biron  has  said  of  Rosaline  is  exactly 
true;  but  Indeed  in  this  scene  alone  there  are  a 
hundred  proofs  of  the  similitude  of  his  portrait. 
Rosaline  declares  that  men  are  fools  to  pur- 
chase mocking  as  Biron  does  and  she  goes  on: 

That  same  Biron  I'll  torture  ere  I  go; 

How  I  would  make  him  fawn  and  beg  and  seek, 
And  wait  the  season  and  observe  the  times. 
And  spend  his  prodigal  wits  in  bootless  rhymes, 
And  shape  his  service  wholly  to  my  hests. 
And  make  him  proud  to  make  me  proud  that  jests!  .  .  .  . 


Surely  It  Is  true  that  his  love  made  Shakespeare 

110 


Lovers  Labour's  Lost:  Rosaline  Again 

beg  and  fawn  and  spend  his  prodigal  wits  in  boot- 
less rhymes,  and  surely  he  was  "  proud  to  make 
her  proud."     The  whole  description  is  astonish- 
ing in  its  cruel  veracity. 
The  princess  says : 

None  are  so  surely  caught,  when  they  a^e  catch'd 
As  wit  turn'd  fool.  .  .  . 

And  Rosaline  answers  her: 

The  blood  of  youth  burns  not  with  such  excess 
As  gravity's  revolt  to  wantonness. 

Now  here  is  one  more  indubitable  proof  that 
Shakespeare  when  writing  about  Biron's  passion 
is  really  writing  about  his  own.  Biron  is  pic- 
tured as  young  again  and  again  in  the  play;  he 
has  never  been  distinguished  for  ''  gravity  "  but 
for  talkativeness  and  wit.  The  princess  calls  him 
"  quick  Biron  ":  Rosaline  herself  has  told  us  that 
he  is  witty  and  talkative.  The  two  lines  are 
surely  Shakespeare  criticizing  himself.  When  he 
revised  this  play  at  thirty-three  he  thought  him- 
self old.  Just  as  he  calls  himself  old  in  the  mag- 
nificent sonnet  which  begins : 

That  time  of  year  thou  raayst  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 

in 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

When  he  wrote  this  sonnet  at  thirty-three  or 
thirty-four  he  did  seem  old  no  doubt  in  compari- 
son to  Mary  Fitton  who  was  only  nineteen. 
That's  what  he  is  thinking  of  when  he  makes 
Rosaline  talk  out  of  character  of  Biron's  love  as 
*'  gravity's  revolt  to  wantonness." 

There  are  still  more  proofs  in  this  play  that 
Shakespeare  has  painted  himself  and  his  love  for 
us  under  the  names  of  Biron  and  Rosaline.  A 
little  later  Biron  tells  her  that  he  will  do  any- 
thing for  her:  and  Rosaline,  by  way  of  answer 
to  this  declaration,  calls  for  music,  for  no  earthly 
reason  save  that  all  Shakespeare's  favourite 
characters  ask  for  music.  When  the  "  dark 
lady  "  played  to  him  he  called  her  "  my  music." 

iVgain  and  again  Biron  declares  his  devotion 
while  Rosaline  mocks  him : 


Biron.  O,  I  am  yours,  and  all  that  I  possess! 
Ros.        All  the  fool  mine.'' 


At  length  he  drops  all  affectation  and  humour 
and  jesting  and  comes  to  plain  words: 

Henceforth  my  wooing  mind  shall  be  express'd 
In  russet  yeas  and  honest  kersey  noes: 
And,  to  begin,  wench — so  God  help  me,  la ! — 
My  love  to  thee  is  sound,  sans  crack  or  flaw, 
Ros.  Sans  sans  I  pray  you. 
112 


I 


Lovers  Labour  s  Lost:  Rosaline  Again 

BIron  replies  out  of  Shakespeare's  very  soul: 

.  .  .  Yet  I  have  a  trick 

Of  the  old  rage:  bear  with  me,  I  am  sick; 

I'll  leave  it  by  degrees  .  .  . 

Shakespeare-BIron  is  speaking  here  more  truly 
than  he  knows.  Shakespeare  is  about  to  leave 
his  gay  comedies  and  his  light  witty  speech,  his 
rhymes  and  his  conceits  for  simple  prose  and  ter- 
rible tragedies.  His  ''  dark  lady  "  is  soon  to 
cure  him  of  all  affectation  and  lightness  of  speech 
and  even  of  gaiety  and  hope.  This  is  the  note  of 
profound  irony  in  the  Sophoclean  sense  which 
adds  tragic  significance  to  the  whole  end  of  this 
play.  A  little  later  Biron  says  in  words  that  are 
prophetic:  '^  Honest  plain  words  best  pierce  the 
ear  of  grief."  The  talk  at  the  end  is  altogether 
too  earnest  for  the  play:  Rosaline  even  proclaims 
finally  that  if  after  twelve  months  she  finds  Biron 
free  of  flout  and  jest  she  will  be  ''  right  joyful  of 
his  reformation." 

Whether  it  was  a  reformation  or  not,  his 
black-eyed  mistress  with  the  creamy  skin  cer- 
tainly ^wrought  a  complete  change  In  Shake-  i 
speare's  life  and  art.  It  was  his  love  for  her, 
the  gypsy-wanton,  which  brought  him  to  knowl- 
edge of  life,  and  turned  him  as  I  have  said  else- 
where from  "  a  light-hearted  writer  of  comedies 

lis 


The  PVomen  of  Shakespeare 

and  histories  into  the  author  of  the  greatest  trag-| 
edies  that  have  ever  been  conceived."  Shake- 
speare owes  the  greater  part  of  his  renown  to 
Mary  Fitton.  How  she  must  have  tortured  him 
before  he  wrote  that  wonderful  sonnet : 

What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  Siren  tears, 
Distill'd  from  limbecks  foul  as  hell  within. 
Applying  fears  to  hopes  and  hopes  to  fears, 
Still  losing  when  I  saw  myself  to  win ! 
What  wretched  errors  have  my  heart  committed, 
Whilst  it  hath  thought  itself  so  blessed  never! 
How  have  mine  eyes  out  of  their  spheres  been  fitted 
In  the  distraction  of  this  madding  fever? 


I 


The  "  madding  fever,"  as  we  shall  see,  was 
not  even  then  at  its  height. 


114 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE   SONNETS:   THE   LOVER's    COMPLAINT: 

shakespearf/s  dark  mistress 

For  love  is  strong  as  death ;  j  ealousy  is  cruel  as  the  grave. 

TN  the  previous  chapter  we  identified  the  Rosa- 
line of  Romeo  and  Juliet  with  the  Rosahne 
of  Love's  Labour  s  Lost  and  proved  that  both 
Rosalines  are  photographic  studies  of  the  "  dark 
lady "  of  the  second  sonnet-series,  who  was 
Shakespeare's  mistress  and  love.  It  has  been 
shown  also  that  the  idealistic  pictures,  Julia, 
Juliet,  Portia,  Beatrice,  and  Rosalind  are  all 
portraits  of  the  same  woman  with  her  high 
temper  mitigated  and  her  wantonness  subdued 
to  passionate  loyalty  and  affection.  Shakespeare 
has  pictured  his  heart's  love  for  us,  as  he  has  pic- 
tured no  one  else  in  all  his  plays. 

Browning  tells  us  that  every  artist  is  tor- 
mented with  the  desire  to  find  some  new  way  of 
praising  the  woman  he  loves;  Dante  will  paint 
her  picture,  Raphael  will  write  her  a  century  of 

115 


1^ he  Women  of  Shakespeare 


I 


sonnets;  he,  himself,  will  use  a  new  verse-form 
"  once  and  for  one  only."  Shakespeare  felt  thel^ 
same  need  and  satisfied  It,  not  only  by  pouring 
out  his  very  soul  to  her  In  sonnets,  but  especially 
by  picturing  her  In  both  comedies  and  tragedies 
In  every  sort  of  light,  so  to  speak.  Mary  Fitton 
Is  the  only  character  In  all  his  dramas  whom  he 
has  thus  shown  to  us  body  and  soul,  and  we  have  ^ 
not  one  portrait  of  her  but  a  dozen.  He  Is  per- 
petually painting  her,  now  In  love,  now  In  hate, 
as  a  tall  gypsy,  queen  and  wanton,  with  pitch- 
black  eyes  and  hair,  velvet  brow,  damask  white  j 
skin,  red  lips,  and  vivid  cheeky  speech,  and  her 
soul  Is  made  at  least  as  distinct  to  us  as  her  body: 
she  is  bold  and  proud,  this  Dian,  wily  huntress 
of  men;  generous,  too,  and  high-tempered;  witty 
above  all  women  and  above  all  women  eager  to 
satisfy  every  impulse  of  desire.  When  passion's 
spell  is  on  him,  Shakespeare  finds  images  to 
convey  her  loveliness  to  us  such  as  no  other  poet 
ever  found  before  or  since:  "  thine  eyes  I  love  " 
he  cries,  and  talks  about  their  "mourning  "  and 
their  "  pretty  ruth,"  and  then  enskies  them  for- 
ever by  comparing  them  with  that  "  full  star  that 
ushers  In  the  even  ";  her  lips,  too,  he  loves,  and 
finds  a  deathless  word  for  them — "  those  lips 
that   lovers   own   hand   did  make  " — the    simple 

116 


The  Sonnets:  Shakespeare's  Dark  Mistress 

monosyllables  kiss  and  cling,  and  about  her  su- 
perb figure  he  has  thrown  a  robe  of  "  modern 
grace  "  to  explain  her  incommunicable  charm. 
And  yet  the  professor-pedants  hum  and  ha  and 
purse  dry  lips  and  wish  there  were  *'  some  evi- 
dence of  this  passion." 

The  story  set  forth  in  the  sonnets  is  convinc- 
ing by  reason  of  its  simplicity  and  unexpected- 
ness. Who  would  have  imagined  that  Shake- 
speare with  the  best  head  in  the  world  and  the 
best  tongue  would  have  asked  another  man  to 
plead  his  cause  for  him  with  the  woman  he  loved: 
who  would  have  dreamt  that  his  love  would  have 
tempted  the  friend  and  given  herself  to  him?  It 
IS  certain  not  only  from  the  sonnets,  but  from  the 
plays  that  Shakespeare  made  this  mistake.  I 
have  pointed  out  in  The  Man  Shakespeare  that 
this  same  story  is  set  forth  three  times  in  three 
different  plays  written  about  this  time.  It  is  told 
In  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  in  the  last 
act  of  which  Shakespeare's  personal  bitterness 
shows  itself  again  and  again  in  spite  of  the  dra- 
matic cloak.  Valentine's  words  are  not  to  be 
mistaken : 

Thou  common  friend^,  that's  without  faith  or  love. 
For  such  is  a  friend  now  .... 

The  Italics  are  mine. 

liT 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

In  Much  Ado  the  story  is  told  again,  and  this 
time  it  is  dragged  in  by  the  heels;  for  it  has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  plot  and  is  in 
itself  too  serious  a  theme  for  the  gay  comedy. 
The  way  the  story  is  told,  too,  shows  Shake- 
speare's personal  feeling  in  every  line  as  I  have 
proved  in  my  earlier  volume. 

In  Twelfth  Night  the  same  incident  is  used 
again,  and  these  three  plays  cover  roughly  the 
''  three  years  "  over  which  the  sonnets  extend. 
The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  was  probably  re- 
vised in  1598:  Shakespeare's  bitterness  in  it  is 
intense  because  the  betrayal  was  fresh.  In 
Much  Ado,  which  dates  from  about  1599,  the 
whole  incident  is  considered  more  calmly,  more 
philosophically,  and  in  Twelfth  Night,  dating 
from  1600,  It  is  merely  touched  upon. 

In  sending  his  friend  to  his  love,  Shakespeare 
made  a  schoolboy's  blunder  as  Benedick  tells 
him;  he  paid  dearly  for  it;  but  the  explanation 
Is  simple  enough.  Shakespeare  was  fulfilled,  as 
we  have  seen,  with  the  peculiarly  English  rever- 
ence for  noble  birth  and  social  rank.  Mary  Fit- 
ton  was  a  maid  of  honour  who  held  her  head 
high;  Shakespeare  felt  himself  Inferior  to  her. 
Lord  William  Herbert  was  a  great  noble  far 
above  even  Mistress  Fitton  In  position;  he  was  a 

118 


The  Sonnets:  Shakespeare's  Dark  Mistress 

poet  to  boot;  might,  therefore,  be  able  to  get  the 
girl  to  understand  her  poet's  transcendent  merits. 
We  all  long  to  hear  ourselves  praised  to  the 
woman  we  love.  But  Mary  Fitton  was  nineteen 
and  Herbert  nearly  the  same  age;  she  tempted 
him  with  her  "  foul  pride  "  and  Shakespeare  lost 
both  the  friend  who  had  gone  as  "  surety  "  for 
him  and  his  love. 

Here  the  boldest  commentators  have  stopped; 
but  the  story  does  not  end  here,  or  we  should 
only  have  had  from  Shakespeare  a  couple  of 
tragedies  instead  of  six  or  eight.  The  truth  is 
the  critics  are  reading  only  from  the  sonnets,  and 
the  sonnets  here  are  not  clear  enough  for  them, 
though  they  should  be.  Even  the  sonnets  say 
plainly  that  Mary  Fitton's  traitorism  with  Her- 
bert took  place  in  the  very  begmning  of  the  ac- 
quaintance: Shakespeare  cries  that  his  friend 
was  but  '*  one  hour  "  his :  and  not  only  do  the 
sonnets  themselves  tell  us  that  they  cover  a  pe- 
riod of  three  years,  but  they  show  us  Shake- 
speare begging  Mary  Fitton  to  admit  him  as  one 
"  Will  "  in  her  many  ''  Wills  ''— ''  in  the  num- 
ber let  me  pass  untold,"  he  cries  pitifully — and 
then: 

For  nothing  hold  me,  so  it  please  thee  hold 
That  nothing  me,  a  something  sweet  to  thee. 

119 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

Moreover,  the  sonnets  don't  speak  of  one 
"  foul  fault  "  of  Mary  Fitton;  but  of  many,  and 
in  the  last  series  addressed  to  her,  Shakespeare 
goes  on  complaining  of  her  evil  "  deeds  "  and 
betrayals,  till,  in  the  very  last  sonnet  of  all,  he 
moans: 

And  all  my  honest  faith  in  thee  is  lost. 

But  his  passionate  love  did  not  die  with  his 
faith,  as  we  shall  soon  see;  in  fine,  Herbert  was 
but  an  incident;  though  to  Shakespeare  the  most 
important  incident  In  the  long  chapter  of  Mary 
Fitton's  unfalth. 

All  the  Inferences  which  can  be  drawn  from 
the  sonnets  are  established  and  extended  in  the 
plays.  Before  Herbert  came  on  the  scene  at  all 
(he  did  not  reach  London  as  a  boy  of  eighteen 
till  1598),  In  Christmas,  1597,  when  Love's  La- 
hour's  Lost  was  played  at  Whitehall,  Shake- 
speare had  had  proof  on  proof  of  Mary  Fitton's 
unfaithfulness:  she  was  even  then  to  him  a 
"  wanton,''  but  curiously  enough  there  Is  no  hint 
of  jealousy  or  of  betrayal  In  BIron's  love  of  Ro- 
saline which  corroborates  my  argument.  Shake- 
speare's passion  for  his  mistress  of  which  we  see 
the  dawn  In  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  still  but  morning- 
warm  In  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  and  only  reaches 

IfO 


The  Sonnets:  Shakespeare^s  Dark  Mistnss 

its  burning  meridian  after  the  betrayal  and  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  second  sonnet-series. 

I  shall  be  told  that  in  all  this  I  have  lost  sight 
of  William  Herbert  and  Shakespeare's  love  for 
him  as  shown  in  the  first  series  of  sonnets.  In 
my  book,  The  Man  Shakespeare,  I  have  given  it 
as  my  settled  opinion  that  Shakespeare's  affec- 
tion for  young  Herbert  has  been  exaggerated  out 
of  all  reason.  I  have  not  disguised  my  belief 
that  to  some  extent  Shakespeare  himself  is  re- 
sponsible for  the  misunderstanding;  partly  out 
of  snobbery,  partly  out  of  hope  of  favours  to 
come,  Shakespeare  strained  the  expression  of  his 
liking  for  young  Herbert  and  his  admiration  for 
his  youth  and  "  bravery  "  as  far  as  he  w^ell  could; 
but  even  in  the  sonnets  he  condemned  his  trai- 
torism  with  Mary  Fitton,  and  where  he  could 
speak  more  freely  in  the  anonymity  of  drama,  as 
in  the  last  act  of  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona, 
and  in  Much  Ado  he  showed  himself  severe  to 
the  "  false  friend  "  and  full  of  contempt  for  the 
''  stealer." 

But  before  handling  Herbert's  relations  to 
Shakespeare  and  to  Mary  Fitton  let  me  precise 
Shakespeare's  position  in  the  triangular  love- 
duel.  The  first  series  of  sonnets  from  i  to  125 
inclusive  is  addressed  to  a  young  man  of  high  po- 

121 


The  Women   oj  Shakespeare 

sltlon,  wealth  and  honourable  esteem,  whom  I 
take  to  be  Lord  William  Herbert.  One  has  only 
to  compare  and  study  these  first  sonnets  side  by 
side  with  the  twenty-six  sonnets  from  127  to 
152  which  are  addressed  to  the  "  dark  lady"  to 
be  struck  by  the  essential  difference  of  feeling. 
The  first  seventeen  or  eighteen  sonnets  to  the 
young  man  only  beg  him  to  marry  and  get  chil- 
dren so  that  his  beauty  may  not  be  lost  to  the 
world.  The  whole  appeal  is  transferred  bodily 
from  Venus  and  Adonis;  it  was  natural  enough 
in  the  mouth  of  Venus,  maddened  with  desire  of 
Adonis;  but  when  addressed  to  a  young  man  by  a 
man  It  rings  forced  and  false.  Then  follow  son- 
nets, In  which  the  language  of  affection  Is  strained 
towards  love;  but  in  all,  there  are  only  half  a 
dozen  of  them;  and  If  sonnet  23,  where  Shake- 
speare apologizes  for  forgetting  to  say 

The  perfect  ceremony  of  love's  rite, 
may  bring  the  careless  reader  to  doubt,  he  has 
only  to  read  sonnet  20  again  to  convince  himself 
that  his  suspicions  are  mistaken.  When  sonnet 
26  was  written,  Shakespeare  was  already  on  a 
journey;  while  sonnet  33  mourns  the  loss  of  the 
friend  who  was  but  "  one  hour  mine."  The 
other  sonnets  tell  of  "  strong  offences "  and 
**  pretty  wrongs,"  of  rivalry  with  another  poet, 

122 


The  Sonnets:  Shakespeare's  Dark  Mistress 

of  coldness  and  reconciliation,  of  old  age,  of 
loyalty,  and  a  dozen  other  things;  but  of  passion 
me  judice  not  one  word. 

Let  me  give  my  whole  thought  with  as  much 
frankness  as  is  permitted  to  me  to-day  in  Eng- 
land: had  sonnet  23  never  been  written,  I  should 
have  no  need  to  argue  the  matter,  and  in  a  later 
chapter  I  shall  show  that  sonnet  23  must  also  be 
explained  and  accounted  for  naturally.  In  all 
the  other  sonnets  the  expressions  of  affection 
are  either  far-fetched  or  wire-drawn  or  thin; 
they  all  ring  affectedly.  Compare  the  two  son- 
nets I  shall  print  here  in  parallel  columns:  both 
handle  the  same  theme;  99  is  addressed  to  the 
youth,  130  to  the  woman:  can  any  one  doubt 
which  is  the  expression  of  passionate  desire: 

99-  130. 

The    forward    violet    thus  My     mistress'     eyes     are 
did  I  chide :  nothing  like  the  sun : 
Sweet    thief,    whence  Coral    is    far    more    red 
didst    thou    steal    thy  than  her  lips'  red : 
sweet  that  smells,  If    snow    be    white,    why 
If    not    from    my     love's  then    her   breasts    are 
breath?     The    purple  dun, 
pride.  If  hairs  be  wires,  black 
Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  wires     grow     on     her 
for  complexion  dwells  head. 
In    my    love's    veins    thou  I    have    seen    roses    dam- 
hast  too  grossly  dyed.  ask'd,  red  and  white. 
The    lily    I    condemned  But  no  such  roses  see  I 
for  thy  hand,  in  her  cheeks; 
123 


The  JVomen  of  Shakespeare 


And    buds     of     marjoram 
had  stol'n  thy  hair; 
The   roses   fearfully  on 
thorns    did    stand. 
One   blushing   shame,    an- 
other  white   despair; 
A    third     nor     red    nor 
white,    had    stol'n    of 
both 
And    to    his    robbery    had 
annex'd  thy  breath; 
But,    for    his    theft,    in 
pride     of     all     his 
growth 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  him 
up  to  death. 
More    flowers    I    noted, 

yet  I  none  could  see 
But   sweet   or   colour   it 
had  stol'n  from  thee. 


And  in  some  perfumes  is 

there  more  delight 
Than      in     the     breath 

that  from  my  mistress 

reeks. 
I  love  to  hear  her  speak, 

yet  well  I  know 
That  music  hath   a   far 

more  pleasing  sound: 
I  grant  I  never  saw  a  god- 
dess go, — 
My   mistress,  when   she 

walks,   treads   on   the 

ground: 
And   yet,   by   heaven,    I 

think  my  love  as  rare 
As  any  she  belied  with 

false  compare. 


In  Intensity  the  loves  are  not  to  be  compared; 
In  fact,  passion  Is  not  to  be  found  In  the  first. 
Among  the  sonnets  to  the  young  man,  you 
suddenly  come  across  one  In  which  there  Is  a 
thought  of  the  "  dark  lady  "  or  mention  of  her, 
and  forthwith  the  poet's  affectations  drop  from 
him,  and  the  page  throbs  and  burns  with  desire. 
Doubt  Is  Impossible :  Shakespeare  wrote  to  the 
youth : 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments  ... 

and  so  forth  In  a  strain  much  appreciated  by  the 

124 


The  Sonnets:  Shakespeare^ s  Dark  Mistress 

professors.     But  this  is  how  he  writes  of  the 
woman : 

What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  Siren  tears, 
Distill'd  from  limbecks  foul  as  hell  within  .  .  . 

Of  course  Clapham  shudders  at  this,  and 
Tooting  turns  away,  If  indeed  Clapham  or  Toot- 
ing ever  read  anything  so  Immoral;  but  every 
writer  and  every  reader  worthy  of  the  name 
knows  which  expression  Is  of  passion  and  which 
of  strained  affection.  Take  it  at  Its  lowest,  harsh 
dispraise  is  a  thousand  times  as  strong  as  af- 
fected eulogy.  Herbert  may  have  been  Shake- 
speare's for  "  one  hour,"  as  is  said  In  sonnet  33, 
though  I  do  not  draw  the  shameful  inference, 
finding  it  Indeed  altogether  incredible  and  even 
absurd.  But  In  any  case  Herbert  had  little  or 
no  Influence  on  Shakespeare's  life  or  on  his  art. 
His  ingratitude  even,  which  Shakespeare  com- 
plains of  so  bitterly  in  this  play  and  In  that, 
would  certainly  have  been  made  just  as  bitter  to 
Shakespeare  by  some  other  false  friend,  if  Her- 
bert had  never  come  into  his  life.  Ingratitude 
is  like  yawning — too  common  to  be  criminal. 

Disillusion  came  to  Shakespeare  through  Mary 
Fitton;  it  was  her  faithlessness  and  not  Herbert's 
which  rankled  in  him.  Take  up  all  the  sonnets 
addressed  to  her  from  127  to  152  and  read  them; 

125 


T he  Women   oj  Shakespeare 

there  Is  no  such  record  of  passion's  ebb  and  flow, 
the  surging  madness  of  it  and  the  rage,  in  any 
other  literature.  Every  sonnet  Is  distinguished 
by  Its  terrible  sincerity.  Again  and  again  in  the 
sonnets  to  the  young  man,  Shakespeare  reaches 
phrases  of  unearthly  spirit  beauty;  here  there  are 
few  or  none :  Shakespeare  never  forgot  his  art 
when  writing  to  the  youth;  when  writing  to  the 
woman  he  was  not  an  artist  but  a  lover.  Read 
140  for  the  rage  and  menace  in  it: 

Be  wise  as  thou  art  cruel;  do  not  press 
My  tongue-tied  patience  with  too  much  disdain; 
Lest  sorrow  lend  me  words  and  words  express 
The  manner  of  my  pity-wanting  pain. 
If  I  might  teach  thee  wit,  better  it  were. 
Though  not  to  love,  yet  love,  to  tell  me  so; 
As  testy  sick  men,  when  their  deaths  be  near. 
No  news  but  health  from  their  physicians  know; 
For  if  I  should  despair,  I   should  grow  mad. 
And  in  my  madness  might  speak  ill  of  thee: 
Now  this  ill-wresting  world  is  grown  so  bad. 
Mad  slanderers  by  mad  ears  believed  be. 

That  I  may  not  be  so,  nor  thou  belied, 

Bear  thine  eyes  straight,  though  thy  proud  heart  go 
wide. 

Sonnet    147    is    a    scream    of   passion    almost 
maniacal  in  intensity: 

My  love  is  as  a  fever,  longing  still 
For  that  which  longer  nurseth  the  disease; 
Feeding  on  that  which  doth  preserve  the  ill, 

126 


The  Sonnets:  Shakespeare's  Dark  Mistress 

The  uncertain  sickly  appetite  to  please^ 
My  reason,  the  physician  to  my  love. 
Angry  that  his  prescriptions  are  not  kept. 
Hath  left  me,  and  I  desperate  now  approve 
Desire  is  death,  which  physic  did  except. 
Past  cure  I  am,  now  reason  is  past  care. 
And  frantic-mad  with  evermore  unrest ; 
My  thoughts  and  my  discourse  as  madmen's  are, 
At  random  from  the  truth,  vainly  express 'd; 

For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair  and  thought  thee  bright 
Who  art  as  black  as  hell,  as  dark  as  night. 

Sonnet  150  paints  his  mistress'  strength  and 
fascination  once  for  all:  the  adrniration  is  wrung 
from  him,  so  to  speak: 

~^0,  from  what  power  has  thou  this  powerful  might 
With  insufficiency  my  heart  to  sway? 
To  make  me  give  the  lie  to  my  true  sight. 
And  swear  that  brightness  doth  not  grace  the  day? 
Whence  hast  thou  this  becoming  of  things  ill. 
That  in  the  very  refuse  of  thy  deeds 
There  is  such  strength  and  warranties  of  skill 
That  in  my  mind,  thy  worst  all  best  exceeds? 
Who  taught  thee  how  to  make  me  love  thee  more 
The  more  I  hear  and  see  just  cause  of  hate?  .  .  . 

Sonnet  151  is  a  plain  confession  of  lust,  and 
contains,  as  Mr.  Tyler  was  the  first  to  point  out, 
a  fairly  clear  reference  to  Mary  Fitton's  name 
{fit  one)  : 

For,  thou  betraying  me,  I  do  betray 

My  nobler  part  to  my  gross  body's  treason; 

My  soul  doth  tell  my  body  that  he  may 

127 


The  JVomen   of  Shakespeare 

Triumph  in  love;  flesh  stays  no  further  reason. 

But  rising  at  thy  name,  doth  point  out  thee, 

As  his  triumphant  prize.   .  .   . 

No  want  of  conscience  hold  it  that  I  call 

Her — "  love  "  for  whose  dear  love  I  rise  and  fall. 


Finally,  In  sonnet  152,  Shakespeare  admits 
with  that  Impartial  Intellect  which  Is  his  most  fas- 
cinating quality  that  If  his  love  Is  twice  forsworn 
and  has  broken  bed  vows  or  marriage  vows  he 
himself  Is  twenty  times  perjured;  he  has  sworn 
oaths  of  her  "  deep  kindness  "  : 

Oaths  of  thy  love,  thy  truth,  thy  constancy; 

.  .   .  more  perjured  I, 
To  swear  against  the  truth  so  foul  a  lie !  .  .  . 

I  must  now  leave  these  enthralling  poems  with 
their  confession  of  Insatiate  desire,  of  madden- 
ing jealousy,  contempt  and  rage,  to  the  miserable 
admission  which  Is  also  an  explanation,  that  all 
his  vows  were  selfish — "  oaths  to  misuse  her,'' 
and  the  final  loss  of  faith: 


And  all  my  honest  faith  in  thee  is  lost, 
For  I  have  sworn  deep  oaths  of  thy  deep  kindness, 
Oaths  of  thy  love,  thy  truth,  thy  constancy; 
And  to  enlighten  thee,  gave  eyes  to  blindness. 
Or  made  them  swear  against  the  thing  they  see; 
For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair,  more  perjured  I, 
To  swear  against  the  truth  so  foul  a  lie! 
128 


The  Sonnets:  Shakespeare's  Dark  Mistress 

This  is  his  regret  that  he  ever  tried  to  idealize 
her  or  even  paint  her  as  possessing  ''  the  deep 
kindness,"  the  soul  of  goodness  we  noticed  in 
Julia,  Portia  and  Rosalind. 

Before  I  pass  from  the  lyrics  altogether,  I 
must  just  touch  on  the  poem  "  The  Lover's 
Complaint,"  which  appeared  at  the  end  of  the 
volume  containing  the  first  edition  of  the  sonnets 
in  1609.  It  looks  to  me  as  if  it  had  been  written 
about  1598.  It  contains  careless  little  sketches 
of  Shakespeare,  Mary  Fitton,  and  Lord  Herbert, 
which  in  the  absence  of  completer  evidence  we 
cannot  afford  to  ignore.  If  I  read  the  poem 
aright,  it  tells  the  story  of  Mary  Fitton's  seduc- 
tion by  Herbert,  but  the  recognizable  touches  are 
slight  and  careless,  and  I  would  not  attach  undue 
Importance  to  it.  Still  its  very  slightness  and 
carelessness  bear  out  my  contention  that  it  was 
not  Mary  FItton's  slip  with  Herbert,  but  her 
perpetual  faithlessness,  which  filled  Shakespeare 
with  jealous  rage.  Any  one  fault  he  could  have 
pardoned:  it  was  the  understanding  that  his  de- 
votion was  poured  Into  a  sieve  which  brought 
him  to  despair. 

In  "  The  Lover's  Complaint "  Shakespeare 
only  appears  In  a  couple  of  verses:  here  is  one 
that  pictures  him: 

129 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

A  reverend  man  tliat  graz'd  his  cattle  nigh. 

Sometime  a  bhisterer^  that  the  ruffle  knew 

Of  court,  of  city,  and  had  let  go  by 

The  swiftest  hours,  observed  as  they  flew 

Towards  this  afflicted  fancy  fastly  drew. 

And,  privileg'd  by  age,  desires  to  know 

In  brief  the  grounds  and  motives  of  her  woe.  .  .  . 

The  fact  that  "  a  reverend  man ''  and  one 
"  privileg'd  by  age  '*  was  aforetime  a  "  blus- 
terer "  in  the  city  and  court  strikes  me  as  a 
would-be  confession,  but  more  characteristic  of 
Shakespeare  still  is  the  fact  that  even  in  the  hey- 
day of  youth  and  while  fleeting  careless  hours  he 
"  observed  "  them  as  they  flew.  What  all  these 
high  qualities  have  to  do  with  cowherding  we  are 
not  told. 

Mary  Fitton,  too,  Is  recognizable  by  her  pride, 
for  pride  has  little  to  do  with  unkempt  hair : 

Her  hair,  nor  loose,  nor  tied  in  formal  plat, 
Proclaim'd  in  her  a  careless  hand  of  pride;  .  .  . 

Shakespeare  tells  us  how  she  held  off  from 
Herbert  at  first,  and  soon  we  shall  see  that  Her- 
bert describes  her  In  the  same  way: 

Yet  did  I  not,  as  some  my  equals  did 
Demand  of  him,  nor  being  desired,  yielded; 
Finding  myself  in  honour  so  forbid. 
With  safest  distance  I  mine  honour  shielded.  .  •  • 
130 


The  Sonnets:  Shakespeare^s  Dark  Mistress 

We  have  also  the  explanation  of  Mistress  Fit- 
ton's  coldness  to  Herbert  at  first: 

For  further  I  could  say^  "  This  man's  untrue/' 
And  knew  the  patterns  of  his  foul  beguiling; 
Heard  where  his  plants  in  others'  orchards  grew. 
Saw  how  deceits  were  gilded  in  his  smiling; 
Knew  vows  were  ever  brokers  to  defiling;  .  .  . 

But  at  length  she  yielded  and  "  dafi'd  the  white 
stole  of  her  chastity  "  to  Herbert's  pleading.  It 
was  his  youth  and  "  beauteous  "  person  won  her, 
helped  by  his  cunning  tongue.  The  description 
of  Herbert  is  the  best  we  have  got;  though  cur- 
sory it  seems  fairly  complete: 

His  browny  locks  *  did  hang  in  crooked  curls ; 

Small  show  of  man  was  yet  upon  his  chin.  .  .  . 

But  it  is  the  next  verse  which  paints  him.  He 
is  bold  and  free-spoken,  we  are  told,  as  he  is 
handsome ;  he  could  ride  splendidly,  too,  and  was 
an  admirable  advocate — at  least  In  his  own  cause 
— the  qualification  is  finely  characteristic  both  of 
Shakespeare  and  Herbert: 

So  on  the  tip  of  his  subduing  tongue 
All  kinds  of  arguments  and  questions  deep. 
All  replication  prompt,  and  reason  strong. 
For  his  advantage  still  did  wake  and  sleep. 

*  In  sonnet  144'  Herbert  is  described  as  "  a  man  right  fair." 
131 


The  fVomen  oj  Shakespeare 

As  soon  as  the  youth  attained  his  object  he  left 
the  maiden  to  grieve  for  his  broken  promises  and 
break  the  rings  which  he  had  given  her. 

In  this  poem  we  have,  I  beheve,  a  shght  pencil 
sketch,  as  it  were,  of  the  three  figures,  a  sketch 
which  is  very  interesting  in  its  way,  though  per- 
haps not  in  itself  sufficient  to  be  convincing.  But 
this  faint  outline  of  the  relations  between  Her- 
bert and  Mary  Fitton  is  confirmed  and  strength- 
ened beyond  expectation  in  the  play  I  am  now 
about  to  handle. 


132 


CHAPTER    VII 


all's    well    that    ends    well:    HELENA    AND 
BERTRAM:  MARY  FITTON  AND  LORD  HERBERT 


A\ ^HEN  The  Man  Shakespeare  appeared  one 
^  of  my  ablest  and  most  sympathetic  critics, 
Mr.  Arnold  Bennett,  put  his  finger  on  my  state- 
ment that  Shakespeare's  friendship  for  Herbert 
was  only  superficial  as  the  weakest  point  in  the 
book.  It  was  to  be  expected  that  Mr.  Arnold 
Bennett  would  show  himself  a  most  excellent 
critic;  for  fine  criticism  is  only  the  other  side  of 
creative  genius.  Yet  I  almost  despaired  of  find- 
ing any  further  evidence  on  the  point,  for  both 
Shakespeare's  snobbishness  and  his  hope  of  fa- 
vours to  come  from  Lord  William  Herbert  (to 
say  nothing  about  legitimate  fear  for  his  own 
safety)  hindered  him  from  telling  us  frankly 
what  he  thought  of  his  high-born  faithless  friend. 
He  hinted  it  clearly  enough  in  the  sonnets,  and 
more  clearly  still  when  protected  by  the  dramatic 
shield  in  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  and  in 
Much  Ado;  but  something  more  was  wanted. 

133 


The  JFomen  oj  Shakespeare 

When  I  was  asked  to  write  pf  The  Women  of 
Shakespeare  I  was  on  a  holiday  in  the  south  of 
Italy,  far  away  from  my  books,  and  without  the 
notes  made  in  earlier  readings;  this  deprivation 
brought  me  good  fortune.  Reading  all  Shake- 
speare over  again  without  conscious  preposses- 
sion I  found  In  a  later  play,  AlVs  Well — a  play  I 
had  always  disliked  in  spite  of  Coleridge's  ex- 
travagant eulogy,  and  therefore  had  read  too  cur- 
sorily— a  passage  of  extraordinary  significance,  a 
passage  which  shows  us  Herbert  to  the  life  and 
his  Inexpressibly  vulgar  and  caddish  view  of  his 
relations  with  Mary  FItton.  I  confess  my  over- 
sight the  more  easily  because  it  only  proves  how 
little  I  have  been  Inclined  to  strain  plain  Infer- 
ences. 

We  can  see  Herbert  now  In  the  light  of  Shake- 
speare's mature  judgment.  With  supreme  art 
he  gives  us  Herbert's  own  view  of  the  seduction 
of  Mary  FItton.  We  have.  In  fact,  Herbert's 
confession  as  If  taken  down  from  his  own  lips, 
with  the  "  i's  "  dotted  and  the  ''  t's  "  crossed, 
and  those  who  can  read  it  and  still  believe  In  a 
guilty  Intimacy  between  the  two  men  are  greatly 
to  be  pitied. 

AlVs  Well  that  Ends  Well  remains,  in  spite  of 
the    early   sketch     which    Is    Its    skeleton,    so    to 

134 


JlFs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

speak,  a  work  of  the  master's  maturity.  As  I 
have  said,  it  is  of  capital  importance,  for  it  fills 
a  gap  in  our  knowledge,  making  clear  not  only 
Herbert's  view  of  Mary  Fitton,  but  what  is  of 
infinitely  more  interest  to  us  the  way  Shakespeare 
regarded  his  high-born  patron,  friend,  and  rival. 

The  picture  of  Flelena  in  this  play  has  been  so 
bepraised  that  it  demands  attentive  scrutiny: 
Coleridge  called  Helena  "  the  loveliest  of  Shake- 
speare's characters "  and  the  professor-manda- 
rins all  echo  this  nonsensical  eulogy.  It  will  be 
convenient  to  deal  with  this  minor  matter  first; 
for  it  affords  an  easy  entrance  to  the  heart  of  the 
greater  problem. 

The  features  of  Helena  are  outlined  almost 
beyond  power  of  modification  in  the  first  scene 
of  the  first  act.  She  admits  she  is  in  love  with 
"  a  bright  particular  star"  Bertram: 

....  my  imagination 
Carries  no  favour  in't  but  Bertram's. 
I  am  undone:  there  is  no  living,  none 
If  Bertram  be  away  .   .  . 

This  is  hardly  the  way  a  young  girl  confesses 
her  love  even  to  herself;  it  is  needlessly  em- 
phatic*    Then  Parolles  comes  to  view,  whom  she 

*  Unless,  indeed,  it  is  Shakespeare's  idea  of  Mary  Fitton's 
passion  for  Herbert. 

135 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

weighs  up  far  too  correctly  as  a  "  notorious 
liar,"  a  coward,  and  "a  great  way  fool";  yet 
she  engages  at  once  with  this  fool  and  coward, 
in  a  long  wordy  discussion  on  virginity,  which  she 
admits  "  is  weak  in  defence  "  while  confessing 
that  she  wishes  to  lose  it  "  to  her  own  liking." 

Then  she  talks  of  Bertram  at  court,  and  uses 
images  in  swarms  to  show  off  her  word-wit,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  time  and  the  custom  of  young 
Shakespeare;  and,  lastly,  she  becomes  thought- 
ful, almost  philosophic,  in  the  rhymed  soliloquy 
that  begins: 

Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie. 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven:  .  .  . 

This  monologue  ends  with  the  tawdry  af- 
fected words : 

.  .  .  who  ever  strove 
To  show  her  merits  that  did  miss  her  love? 
The  King's  disease — my  project  may  deceive  me. 
But  my  intents  are  fix'd,  and  will  not  leave  me. 

In  all  these  eighty  or  a  hundred  lines  there  is 
hardly  a  hint  of  feminine  characterization.  It 
is  as  poor,  as  lifeless,  a  sketch  as  any  of  Shake- 
speare's early  failures  in  the  same  field.  Hel- 
ena's best  words  are  those  in  which  she  pictures 
her  lover;  she  admires  his  "  arched  brows," 
*'  hawking  eyes  "  and  '*  curls."     I  must  just  note 

136 


All's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

that  this  physical  description,  being  very  rare  in 
Shakespeare,  is  important;  it  indicates  his  ex- 
traordinary interest  in  the  character  of  Ber- 
tram.* 

The  chief  peculiarity  in  Helena's  character  so 
far  is  coarseness  in  thought  and  words,  and  this 
coarseness  is  a  characteristic  of  the  majority  of 
Shakespeare's  heroines.  English  criticism  fol- 
lowing Coleridge  has  exhausted  ingenuity  in  ex- 
plaining and  excusing  it.  The  defence  is  simple : 
the  whole  fault  lies,  if  you  please,  in  the  time: 
Shakespeare's  heroines  are  cleaner-minded  than 
Fletcher's,  and  what  could  one  wish  for  more 
than  that?  But  all  primitive  times  were  not 
coarse;  Homer  and  Sophocles  are  free  of  the 
fault,  and  Dante's  Francesca  is  a  model  of  reti- 
cent delicacy  of  speech.  It  looks  as  if  the  fault 
were  in  our  race,  or,  to  speak  more  truly,  in  the 
author,  and  though  we  should  not  be  far  wrong 
if  we  concluded  that  the  talk  which  went  on 
among  the  young  noblemen  on  the  stage  in  Shake- 
speare's time  was  as  lewd  as  it  well  could  be,  and 
nine  out  of  ten  of  the  young  women  whom  he 

*  The  "  curls "  too  and  pride  connect  Bertram  with  the 
faithless  young  lover  whom  we  naturally  took  to  be  Herbert 
in  The  Lover's  Complaint — 

His  browny  locks  did  hang  in  crooked  curls. 

1S7 


The  fVotnen  oj  Shakespeare 

met  in  the  theatre  were  quite  willing  to  bandy 
obscenities  with  their  aristocratic  admirers,  still 
the  coarseness  of  speech  found  in  his  dramas 
must  be  ascribed  to  his  individual  preference. 
Sophocles  and  Aristophanes  in  this  respect, 
though  of  the  same  period,  were  poles  apart, 
and  Spenser  was  far  more  mealy-mouthed  than 
our  world-poet.  It  is  certain,  too,  from  Mer- 
cutio  and  Hamlet,  and  the  ever-famous  Nurse, 
that  Shakespeare  himself  enjoyed  jests  which  in 
our  more  squeamish  times  would  startle  a  club 
smoking-room.  I  find  no  fault  with  him  on  this 
account,  but  when  he  depicts  pure  maidens  en- 
joying the  high  flavour  of  such  discussions,  I  can 
only  say  that  he  commits  an  offence  against  Na- 
ture and  an  error  in  art.  He  does  not  make 
Helena  more  real  to  us  by  her  eagerness  to  talk 
of  her  virginity,  but  less  real.  It  has  never  been 
a  characteristic  of  young  girls  to  like  to  discuss 
this  theme  with  men  whom  they  despise.  The 
truth,  of  course,  is  that  Mary  Fitton  was  exces- 
sively sensual,  bold  and  free-spoken,  and  because 
of  his  love  for  her  Shakespeare  was  continually 
tempted  to  ascribe  her  qualities  to  his  heroines. 
Raphael,  it  is  said,  gave  the  brown,  almond  eyes 
of  his  mistress  to  all  his  Madonnas. 

When  questioned  by  the  Countess,  Helena  is 
138 


JWs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

forced  to  admit  the  secret  of  her  love;  true,  she 
fences  at  first  with  words;  but,  as  soon  as  she 
has  brought  herself  to  confess,  her  avowal  be- 
comes as  frank  and  passionate  as  a  young  man's 
would  have  been.  This  long  speech  belongs  to 
the  later  revision,  and  is  manifestly  Shake- 
speare's own  confession.     Here  are  some  lines: 

I  know  I  love  in  vain,  strive  against  hope; 

Yet  in  this  captious  and  intenihle  sieve 

I  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love 

And  tack  not  to  lose  still:  thus,  Indian-like 

Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 

The  sun*  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper. 

But  knows  of  him  no  more  .  .  . 

If  any  one  doubts  that  this  Is  Shakespeare  speak- 
ing In  his  proper  person  of  his  love  for  Mary 
FItton,  let  him  consider  the  lines  which  I  put  In 
Italics.     Helena  goes  on: 

.  .  .  O!  then,  give  pity 

To  her  whose  state  is  such,  that  cannot  choose 
But  lend  and  give  where  she  is  sure  to  lose; 
That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies. 
But  riddle-like,  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies ! 

*  Biron  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost  is  a  mere  mask  of  Shake- 
speare himself,  and  Biron  says  to  Rosaline: 

Vouchsafe  to  show  the  sunshine  of  your  face 
That  we,  like  savages,  may  worship  it. 

But  it  is  the  "captious  and  intenible  sieve"  which  convinces 
me  that  Shakespeare  is  here  giving  expression  to  his  own  re- 
gret. 

139 


The  tVomen  of  Shakespeare 

The  sad,  Vlola-llke  resignation  of  the  last  verses 
Is  untrue  to  Helena;  for  Helena  has  already  told 
us  that  her  "Intents  are  fix'd";  already  she 
means  to  cure  the  King  and  ask  for  Bertram's 
hand  In  recompense. 

Her  persuasion  of  the  King,  too,  has  nothing 
feminine  In  It;  It  Is,  indeed,  curiously  calm  and 
rational  In  tone : 

What  I  can  do,  can  do  no  hurt  to  try, 

and  when  the  King  asks  her  how  long  the  cure 
win  take,  she  bursts  Into  a  parody  of  poetry: 

The  greatest  grace  lending  grace. 
Ere  twice  the  horses  of  the  sun  shall  bring 
Their  fiery  torcher  his  diurnal  ring. 
Ere  twice  in  murk  and  occidental  damp 
Moist   Hesperus   hath   quench'd   his   sleepy   lamp.  .  .  , 

and  so  forth  In  a  way  that  ought  to  have  fright- 
ened, or  at  least  exasperated,  his  Majesty,  In- 
stead of  convincing  him. 

When  asked  "  what  she  will  venture  "  on  the 
cure,  she  answers  as  a  young  lyric  poet  con- 
temptuous of  feminine  modesty  might  answer: 

Tax  of  impudence, 
A  strumpet's  boldness,  a  divulged  shame, 
Traduc'd  by  odious  ballads:  my  maiden's  name 
Sear'd  otherwise;  nay,  worse  of  worst  extended. 
With  vilest  torture  let  my  life  be  ended. 
140 


\ 

JlFs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

The  rhyme  here  adds  a  touch  of  exquisite  comi-        v 
cality  to  such  boasting  as  would  befit  ParoUes  or 
even  the  Immortal  Pistol. 

Then  the  "  pure  and  exquisite  Helena/*  as 
Professor  Herford  calls  her  In  the  Eversley  Edi- 
tion, boldly  asks  In  payment  of  her  service  for 
the  husband  she  may  select.  Of  course  all  this 
stuff  Is  beneath  criticism:  one  might  as  well  take 
the  mlaulllngs  of  a  midnight  cat  for  eloquence 
as  this  for  the  dramatic  presentation  of  a  maid- 
en's character.  Helena  hardly  speaks  at  all;  is, 
in  fact,  nothing  more  than  the  mouthpiece  of 
young  Shakespeare's  crude  opinions.  A  few 
phrases  of  his  later  writing  glitter  here  and 
there;  but  they  are  embedded  In  a  lot  of  rhymed 
nonsense  and  only  serve  to  confuse  our  view  of 
the  girl. 

As  we  have  now  reached  the  middle  of  the  sec- 
ond act,  it  would  be  almost  impossible  for  any 
art  to  make  Helena  live  for  us.  Shakespeare, 
however,  seems  to  have  made  up  his  mind  to  at- 
tempt the  impossible,  for  we  now  meet  continu- 
ally the  revision  of  his  riper  manhood.  When 
asked  to  choose  her  husband,  Helena  suddenly 
forgets  her  boldness,  and  begins  to  talk  like  a 
girl:  or  rather  like  one  of  Shakespeare's  girls, 
say  Portia  for  choice : 

141 


The  Woinen   oj  Shakespeare 

I  am  a  simple  maid;  and  therein  wealthiest* 

That,  I  protest,  I  simply  am  a  maid. 

Please  it,  your  majesty,  I  have  done  already: 

The  blushes  in  my  cheeks  thus  whisper  me, 

"We  blush   that  thou  shouldst  choose;  but  be  refus'd, 

Let  the  white  death  sit  on  thy  cheek  for  ever: 

We'll  ne'er  come  there  again." 


I  do  not  like  the  second  line  of  this  excerpt, 
though  it  expresses  a  sentiment  that  Shakespeare 
uses  a  hundred  times;  but  it  is  impossible  not  to 
admire  the  way  in  which  the  third  line  almost 
turns  the  fault  into  a  beauty.  Helena,  however, 
doffs  her  maiden  modesty  as  suddenly  as  she  as- 
sumed it;  evidently  Shakespeare  did  not  revise 
her  speech  to  the  fourth  lord;  this  "pure" 
maiden  says: 

You  are  too  young,  too  happy,  and  too  good 
To  make  yourself  a  son  out  of  my  blood. 

Immediately  afterwards  she  speaks  again  be- 
comingly to  Bertram:  indeed  just  as  Portia  spoke 
to  Bassanio;  Portia  says: 

.  .  .  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 

*  This   "  therein  wealthiest "   reminds  me  of  Portia's  "  hap- 
piest of  all." 

142 


I 


JWs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

Helena  says: 

I  dare  not  say  I  take  you;  but  I  give 

Me_,  and  my  service^  ever  whilst  I  live. 

Into  your  guiding  power.     This  is  the  man.  .  .  . 

One  could  have  wished  the  last  four  words  away; 
but  the  first  two  lines  almost  save  the  situation. 
When  Bertram  declares 

I  cannot  love  her_,  nor  will  I  strive  to  do't, 

one  wonders,  in  view  of  the  final  reconciliation 
between  them,  why  this  Bertram  should  be  so 
unnecessarily  rude  and  resolved.  It  was  this  curt 
rudeness  of  Bertram  as  much  as  his  "  curls  '*  and 
his  Insensate  pride  of  birth  which  first  made  me 
see  that  Shakespeare  was  Identifying  Bertram 
with  his  faithless  friend  and  rival,  Lord  Wil- 
liam Herbert.  For  this  rudeness  of  Bertram  is 
not  only  exaggerated  beyond  the  needs  of  the 
play,  it  Is  also  consistent  with  what  we  know 
from  history  of  Herbert's  character  and  of  the 
relations  between  him  and  Mary  Fitton.  After 
Mistress  Fitton  had  borne  him  a  child.  Lord 
William  Herbert  was  asked  to  marry  her;  but 
he  refused  peremptorily,  "  admitting  the  act," 
we  are  told,  but  denying  responsibility. 

Bertram's  contempt  Is  so  wounding  that  Hel- 
143 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

ena  for  the  moment  renounces  her  weird  court- 
ship; "Let  the  rest  go,"  she  cries;  but  the  mis- 
chief's done.  Moreover,  she  takes  Bertram's 
hand  as  soon  as  he  overcomes  his  unwillingness 
to  offer  it,  and  marries  the  man  she  knows  dis- 
likes her.  Just  as  Helena  has  varied  coarse  pur- 
suit with  modest  blushing,  so  now  she  varies  hu- 
mility with  boldness.     She  says  to  Bertram: 

.  .  .  Sir,  I  cannot  say 
But  that  I  am  your  most  obedient  servant, 

which  sounds  perilously  like  farcical  exaggera- 
tion; the  next  moment  she  asks  her  unloving 
master  for  a  kiss! 

A  little  later  we  have  the  famous  passage 
wherein  she  pictures  Bertram  as  driven  to  the 
wars  by  her,  and  pities  his  "  tender  limbs  " 
praying  the  bullets  to  "  fly  with  false  aim."  But, 
good  as  the  verses  are,  nothing  can  redeem  Hel- 
ena or  render  her  credible,  and  the  stratagem 
by  which  she  makes  her  husband  her  lover  is  a 
thousand  times  more  revolting  than  the  compul- 
sion she  has  used  to  make  him  wed  her. 

In  his  youth  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  known 
very  little  about  girls  and  nothing  about  their 
natural  modesty,  which  fact  in  itself  throws  an 
evil  sidelight  upon  his  wife's  character. 

144 


AlVs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

''  All's  well  that  ends  well  "  Is  Helena's  re- 
iterated excuse.  But  it  will  not  serve  her.  Take 
merely  the  words: 

But,  O,  strange  men 
That  can  such  sweet  use  make  of  what  they  hate. 

The  words  "  sweet  use  "  under  the  circumstances 
are  an  offence:  It  Is  a  boy's  confession,  not  a 
girl's. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  play,  Indeed,  Helena 
Is  a  sort  of  boy  wavering  between  absurd  hu- 
mility and  cheeky  boldness;  later  she  becomes  a 
woman  at  moments,  with  fine  touches  In  her  of 
pity  and  affection;  the  best  I  can  say  for  her  Is 
that  she  Is  never  more  than  half  realized  by  the 
poet.  When  Dr.  Brandes  calls  her  a  "  patient 
Griselda  "  and  says  that  Shakespeare  has  shed 
over  her  figure  "  a  Raphael-like  beauty,"  I  ex- 
cuse him  as  led  astray  by  English  commentators; 
but  when  Professor  Dowden  asserts  that  Shake- 
speare could  not  choose  but  endeavour  to  make 
beautiful  and  noble  the  entire  character  and  ac- 
tion of  Helena's  "  sacred  boldness  "  I  grin  Irrev- 
erently and  recall  Heine's  contemptuous  gibe  at 
English  critics. 

The  truth  is  that  the  character  of  Helena  Is 
a  mere  jumble  of  contradictions,  without  coher- 

145 


The  fVomen  oj  Shakespeare 

twzt  or  charm;  she  Is  not  realized  clearly  enough 
or  deeply  enough  to  live. 

The  whole  story  of  the  play  is  unsuited  to  the 
character  of  a  young  girl,  and  perhaps  no  care 
could  have  made  a  girl  charming,  or  even  cred- 
ible, who  would  pursue  a  man  to  such  lengths  or 
win  him  by  such  a  trick. 

Shakespeare  probably  sketched  out  the  play 
early,  about  the  time  he  was  picturing  girls  run- 
ning after  men,  but  he  had  now  identified  Ber- 
tram with  Lord  Herbert  and  he  could  not  paint 
Mary  Fitton's  love  for  his  rival  fairly. 

I  am  glad  that  just  as  Dr.  Johnson  "  could  not 
reconcile  his  heart  to  Bertram  "  so  Swinburne 
with  as  good  reason  ''  could  not  reconcile  his  In- 
stincts to  Helena."  But  the  desire  to  praise 
every  work  of  Shakespeare  was  too  strong  for 
Swinburne  even  here,  so  he  went  on  to  talk  of  the 
"  *  sweet,  serene,  skylike  '  sanctity  and  attraction 
of  adorable  old  age  made  more  than  ever  near 
and  dear  to  us  in  the  incomparable  figure  of  the 
old  Countess  of  Rousillon."  This  sing-song  of 
praise  Is  undeserved;  but  a  study  of  the  old  lady's 
portrait  will  bring  us  by  the  easiest  w^ay  to  our 
main  thesis,  the  Identity  of  Bertram  with  Her- 
bert and  his  confession.  Swinburne  evidently 
took  whatever  the  Countess  says  as  characterlza- 

146 


JWs  Well  that  Ends   Well 

tion,  whereas  more  often  than  not  Shakespeare 
is  using  her  as  a  mask  to  display  his  own  wisdom. 
At   the   very  beginning   she   excuses   Helena's 
passion  in  memorable  words. 

Even  so  it  was  with  me  when  I  was  young. 

If  we  are  nature's,  these  are  ours;  this  thorn 
Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong; 

Our  blood  to  us,  this  to  our  blood  is  born; 
It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth. 
Where  love's  strong  passion  is  impress'd  in  youth; 
By  our  remembrances  of  days  foregone, 
Such  were  our  faults — or  then  we  thought  them  none. 

Nowhere  else  in  all  his  work  does  Shakespeare 
try  to  give  us  his  real  opinion  about  passion,  the 
whole  unvarnished  truth,  as  carefully  as  he  does 
here.  Desire  belongs  rightly  to  youth,  he  says, 
and  yet  condemns  it  as  the  thorn  to  the  rose.  Is 
it  a  fault?  he  asks:  In  youth  we  did  not  think  so, 
is  his  half-hearted  answer.  Nowhere  else  do 
we  see  more  clearly  than  here  how  anxious  he 
was  to  keep  a  perfect  balance,  and  Emerson's 
regret  that  Shakespeare  never  gave  us  his  whole 
mind  on  the  highest  matters  that  concern  man 
is  a  mere  confession  that  Emerson  could  not  read 
the  dramatist.  On  this  matter  at  least  Shake- 
speare's opinion  was  far  saner,  better  balanced, 
and  nearer  to  the  heart  of  truth  than  Emerson's 
cheap  Puritanism.     But  is  it  true,  as  Shakespeare 

147 


The  JFomen  of  Shakespeare 

appears  to  think  here,  that  passionate  desire  Is 
an  appanage  of  youth  alone  and  wanes  out  with 
the  years?  It  looks  as  if  he  were  judging  by  con- 
vention and  not  alter  experience. 

This  speech  does  not  paint  the  Countess  for 
us.  No  old  lady  would  be  so  anxious  to  keep  a 
perfect  balance.  If  she  liked  the  girl,  she  might 
be  inclined  to  smile  on  her  love-sick  passion  for 
her  son;  if  she  did  not  like  her,  she  would  de- 
spise her  for  it.  The  Countess  is  too  measured- 
wise.  Or  Is  Shakespeare  suggesting  here  that 
an  old  lady  would  take  a  somewhat  severe  view 
of  passion,  severer  than  a  man?  I  think  not; 
that  is  too  subtle  for  the  dramatist:  apparently 
we  have  here  Shakespeare's  own  opinion,  given 
most  scrupulously.* 

In  the  second  scene  of  the  third  act,  the  old 
Countess  brings  us  to  wonder.  As  soon  as  she 
hears  from  her  son  that  he  has  wedded  Helena 
and  not  ''  bedded  "  her,  and  has  sworn  to  make 
the  ''  not*^  eternal,  she  calls  him  "  rash  unbridled 
boy,"  declares  that  she  "  washes  his  name  out  of 
her  blood,"  and  that  "  twenty  such  rude  boys  " 

*  In  Love's  Labour's  Lost  the  hero  Biron,  roiing  Shake- 
speare's alter  ego,  speaks  of  passion  in  much  the  same  way, 
but  with  two  or  three  rears'  less  experience: 

Young  blood  doth  not  obey  an  old  decree; 
We  cannot  cross  the  cause  why  we  were  born  .  .  . 
lis 


V 


AWs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

might  serve  Helena.     She  begs  the  gentleman  to 
go  to  him : 

.  .  .  tell  him  that  his  sword  can  never  win 
The  honour  that  he  loses:  more  I'll  entreat  you 
Written  to  bear  along  .  .  . 

What  does  this  mean?  It  looks  as  if  Shake- 
speare were  taking  Mary  Fitton's  side  against 
young  Herbert.  In  any  case  the  condemnation 
is  too  impartial  and  far  too  emphatic  in  expres- 
sion for  a  mother  to  use  about  an  only  son.  It 
sets  one  thinking  therefore.  Of  course  Her- 
bert's mother  was  "  Sidney's  sister "  and  re- 
nowned for  high  qualities.  I  think  Shakespeare 
had  this  fine  model  in  mind  when  drawing  the  old 
Countess  Rousillon.  However  this  may  be,  when 
he  portrays  a  mother  judging  her  only  son  too 
severely,  he  must,  at  least,  have  had  very  special 
reasons  for  disliking  her  son.  In  just  the  same 
way  he  gets  the  impartial  Abbess  in  The  Comedy 
of  Errors  to  condemn  his  wife,  Adriana,  and  her 
continual,  jealous  scolding.  Moreover,  it  is 
astonishing  that  Shakespeare  should  have  cared, 
in  his  maturity,  to  revise  so  poor  a  sketch  as  this 
AlVs  Well.  He  must  have  known  that  the  theme 
was  impossible :  why  did  he  touch  it?  Why  after 
working  on  it  did  he  leave  it  in  such  a  faulty  con- 

149 


The  Women   oj  Shakespeare 

dition?  When  Michelangelo  leaves  a  statue 
unfinished,  his  P'leta  of  the  RodaninI  Palace  for 
example,  It  is  because  the  rough,  imperfect  mod- 
elling, the  rude  nose,  and  vast,  sightless  sockets 
are  more  expressive  than  perfect  features  would 
have  been.  Similarly  if  Shakespeare  takes  this 
unsatisfactory  theme  in  hand  and  revises  it,  here 
carelessly,  here  with  particular,  unnecessary  de- 
tail, it  is  surely  to  satisfy  some  personal  need  of 
self-expression.  The  whole  play  bristles  with 
difficulties  which  no  critic  has  ever  tried  to  an- 
swer or  even  to  face;  let  us  see  if  the  riddle  will 
not  solve  Itself. 

First  of  all  let  us  settle  as  near  as  we  can  the 
date  of  the  revision.  Several  passages  help  us 
to  this.  Everyone  remembers  how  the  porter  in 
Macbeth  speaks  of  those  who  go  "  the  prim- 
rose *  way  to  the  everlasting  bonfire."  The 
clown  In  the  fifth  scene  of  the  fourth  act  of  AlV s 
Well  gives  us  the  first  sketch  of  that  magnificent 
phrase:  he  speaks  about: 

The  flowery  way  that  leads  to  the  broad  gate  and  the 
great  fire. 

Besides  we  have   already  caught  distinct  echoes 

*  Ophelia,  too,  in  Hamlet  speaks  of  "  the  primrose  path  of 
dalliance." 

150 


JWs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

of  Portia  and  hints  of  Viola  in  the  revision  of 
Helena. 

This  revision  was  much  earlier  than  Macbeth, 
yet  it  is  evidently  a  product  of  Shakespeare's  suf- 
fering. To  be  more  exact,  it  is  earlier,  I  feel  sure, 
than  Hamlet  because  it  is  not  so  bitter,  and  prob- 
ably later  than  Twelfth  Night  and  Jidiiis  Casar. 
The  time  further  explains  why  Shakespeare's  re- 
vision of  the  character  of  Helena  is  so  ineffectual. 
When  he  revised  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona, 
he  did  it  all  of  a  piece;  he  had  before  him  the 
model  which  afterwards  served  for  Portia ;  it  was 
his  first  view  of  Mary  Fitton  from  a  certain  dis- 
tance as  a  great  lady,  and  he  made  her  credible 
to  us  because  he  pictured  her  in  love  with  him- 
self. But  before  revising  AlFs  Well  he  had  been 
deceived  by  Mary  Fitton  and  forced  to  realize 
her  wantonness;  he  persisted  in  loving  her,  tried 
to  rebuild  his  ruin'd  love;  he  will  not  yet  tell  us 
the  naked  truth  about  her:  he  still  prefers  to 
idealize  her,  but  he  simply  cannot  describe  her 
love  for  Herbert-Bertram  with  any  charm  or 
sincerity;  even  the  revision,  therefore, wavers  and 
Is  unsatisfactory.  For  this  and  other  reasons 
which  will  soon  show  themselves  I  place  the  re- 
vision of  AlV s  Well  about  the  time  of  Julius 
Casar  and  slightly  before  Hamlet.     But  whether 

151 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

put  before  or  after  Julius  Casar  matters  little; 
we  are  near  enough  to  be  true  to  Shakespeare's  | 
nature  and  growth,  and  that  Is  perhaps  better  | 
even  than  temporal  truth. 

Now  let  us  take  up  the  main  question  with  this 
knowledge  in  mind,  that  Shakespeare  revised  the 
play  about  1601,  after  he  had  been  in  love  for 
some  time  with  the  "  dark  lady,"  and  after  Her- 
bert had  betrayed  him.  When  Dr.  Johnson 
condemned  Bertram,  he  was  wiser  than  he  knew. 
It  seems  to  me  that  Shakespeare's  dislike  of  cer- 
tain faults  in  the  youthful  Herbert  comes  to  light 
in  this  harsh  sketch  of  Bertram.  Contrary  to  his 
custom  the  dramatist  forces  us  to  detest  his  pro- 
tagonist. Moreover,  though  Bertram  is  by  way 
of  being  the  hero  of  the  piece,  he  is  allowed  to 
speak  most  contemptuously  of  the  heroine  whom 
Shakespeare  evidently  intends  us  to  admire. 
Every  quality  given  to  this  Bertram  must  be 
weighed  carefully.  From  sheer  insensate  pride 
of  birth  he  holds  Helena  "  most  base,"  and  dis- 
dains her  as  "a  poor  physician's  daughter," though 
his  mother  loves  her.  Furthermore,  not  only 
does  his  mother  condemn  him  and  so  alienate  our 
sympathy  from  him,  but  Parolles  speaks  of  him 
as  *'  a  foolish  idle  boy;  but  for  all  that  very  rut- 
tish."     And  though  he  is  shov/n  as  having  de- 

152 


AlFs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

spatched  "  sixteen  businesses  ...  a  month's 
length  apiece "  In  a  night,  and  though  he  Is 
praised  on  all  hands  for  courage  and  capacity, 
Parolles  returns  to  the  charge,  declaring  that  the 
young  Count  is  ''  a  dangerous  and  lascivious  boy 
who  Is  a  whale  to  virginity  and  devours  up  all  the 
fry  It  finds."  Yet  this  lascivious  Bertram  refuses 
to  "  bed  "  Helena.  These  needless  contradictions 
and  the  extravagantly  precise  and  emphatic  ac- 
cusations of  Parolles  betray  personal  feeling. 
Besides  all  these  charges  agree  with  the  contem- 
porary portrait  of  young  Herbert  and  his  lech- 
ery given  us  by  Clarendon. 

Another  weightier  point.  Shakespeare  knows 
that  he  Is  going  to  end  the  play  happily.  As 
soon,  therefore,  as  Bertram  learns  that  he  has 
slept  with  Helena,  he  must  change  towards  her, 
and  show  her  affection;  he  does  this,  declares, 
indeed,  that  he  will  love  her  "  dearly,  very 
dearly."  Was  It  then  the  embracing  which  has 
made  his  right-about-face  possible?  It  would 
have  been  w^ell,  one  would  think,  at  least  to  have 
passed  this  point  over  In  silence,  to  have  left  it 
to  be  inferred  by  our  Imagination,  but  Shake- 
speare loathes  this  Bertram  and  makes  him  as- 
sert that  the  embracing  had  no  effect  upon  him 
as,  in  fact,  we  know  that  It  had  no  effect  upon 

153 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

Herbert.  But  in  art  the  abrupt  change  of  feel- 
ing must  be  motived:  why,  then,  does  Bertram 
suddenly  turn  from  hating  to  loving  Helena? 
What  should  be  an  explanation  is  expressly  ruled 
out  and  the  improbable  is  thus  made  incredible! 
A  man  does  not  veer  from  hate  to  love  without 
reason;  and  Bertram  is  left  without  a  shadow  of 
reason.  But  Shakespeare  in  his  maturity  does 
not  blunder  in  this  crude  way.  Such  mistakes  on 
his  part  are  always  due  to  personal  feeling. 

There  is  another  piece  of  evidence  which  of 
itself  should  be  convincing.  Bertram's  confession 
that  he  possessed  Diana-Helena  is  most  peculiar; 
it  is  worse  than  unnecessary  as  we  shall  see;  it 
would  have  been  better  to  pass  the  matter  over 
in  silence;  yet  the  confession  is  dragged  in,  made 
circumstantial,  and  it  damns  Bertram  in  the 
reader's  eyes  as  an  unspeakable  cad;  puts  him 
far  lower  than  his  mother's  condemnation  or 
Parolles'  contempt.  Yet,  with  consummate  art, 
this  accusing  confession  is  contrived  to  strike  us 
as  sincere,  bears  indeed  every  imprint  of  truth 
heightened  by  careless,  off-hand  expression.  Let 
us  weigh  each  word  of  it,  for  it  is  surely  Shake- 
speare telling  us  the  actual  truth  about  the  con- 
nection between  Herbert  and  Mary  Fitton.  Ber- 
tram says: 


All's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

.  .   .  certain  it  is  I  lik'd  her. 
And  boarded  her  i'  the  wanton  way  of  youth. 
She  knew  her  distance  and  did  angle  for  me 
Madding  my  desire  with  her  restraint. 
As  all  impediments  in  fancy's  course 
Are  motives  of  more  fancy;  and,  in  fine. 
Her  infinite  cunning,  with  her  modern  grace. 
Subdued  me  to  her  rate:  she  got  the  ring: 
And  I  got  that  which  any  inferior  might 
At  market-price  have  bought  .   .   . 

Here  we  have  the  plain,  unvarnlsh'd  truth  at  last. 
This  is  surely  Herbert-Bertram's  view  of  Mary 
Fitton.  The  lines  I  have  put  in  italics  are  of  in- 
tense interest:  the  "  infinite  cunning''  with  which 
Mary  Fitton  maddened  eagerness,  the  affected 
self-restraint — are  all  used  later  to  make  Cres- 
sida  and  Cleopatra  life-like  to  us;  that  "  modern 
grace  "  was  Mary  Fitton's  magic  gift  we  may  be 
sure,  as  native  to  her  as  the  utter  wantonness  laid 
to  her  charge  in  the  last  two  lines  here,  just  as 
Shakespeare  charged  her  with  it  again  and  again 
in  the  sonnets,  and  painted  it  for  us  as  a  vice  of 
blood  incurable  in  his  "  false  Cressida." 

Here,  too,  we  have  Shakespeare's  frank  and 
final  judgment  of  Herbert.  Bertram-Herbert 
paints  himself  for  us  to  the  life  as  the  shallow, 
selfish,  ineffably  conceited,  aristocrat-cad;  not  a 
single  virtue  in  him  save  the  common,  hard  vir- 
tues of  vigour  and  courage.     No  wonder  stout 

155 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

old  Dr.  Johnson  could  not  stomach  him.  The 
contemptuous  truth  of  the  portrait  shows  that 
Shakespeare  has  at  length  been  able  to  appraise 
the  young  nobleman  at  his  proper  value.  Most 
likely,  Indeed,  as  I  have  said  elsewhere,  he  saw 
Herbert  In  his  true  colours  even  earlier,  but 
thought  it  too  dangerous  to  himself  to  state  his 
true  opinion  In  his  proper  person  In  the  sonnets. 
This  elaborate  self-judgment  of  Herbert  is  in 
perfect  accord  with  the  condemnation  passed 
upon  the  "  false  friend  "  and  "  stealer  "  in  The 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  and  in  Much  Ado.  I 
am  delighted,  however,  to  have  It  here  in  un- 
mistakable terms,  for  it  not  only  throws  new 
light  on  the  relations  between  Herbert  and 
Mary  FItton  and  his  silly  pride  of  birth,  but  It 
sets  all  doubt  at  rest  as  to  the  slight  nature  of 
the  connection  between  Herbert  and  Shake- 
speare. 

Some  other  Indications  that  I  am  justified  in 
thus  Identifying  Bertram  with  Herbert  may  be 
given  here.  As  I  have  said,  it  is  an  historic  fact 
that  when  Miss  FItton  bore  Herbert  a  son  he 
was  asked  to  marry  her  and  refused  flatly, 
rudely,  just  as  Bertram  out  of  tune  with  the 
comedy  refuses  Imperiously  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  Helena. 

156 


! 


All's  Well  that  Ends   Well 

Another  interesting  point:  when  Parolles  is 
questioned  by  the  King,  he  declares  that  Bertram 
"  was  mad  for  her  "  and  adds  that  he  "  knew  of 
their  going  to  bed,  and  other  motions,  as  prom- 
ising her  marriage,  and  things  which  would  de- 
rive me  ill-will  to  speak  of." 

That  "  promising  marriage  "  goes  far  by  it- 
self to  establish  the  identity  of  Bertram  with 
Herbert,  for  it  has  nothing  on  earth  to  do  with 
the  action;  it  contradicts  indeed  both  the  spirit 
and  letter  of  the  play,  for  Bertram  is  married 
and  is  to  be  reconciled  to  his  wife.  Shakespeare 
wishes  us  to  believe  that  Lord  Herbert  had 
promised  marriage  to  Mistress  Fitton  which  the 
historical  fact  that  he  was  asked  to  marry  her, 
seems  to  imply.  Again,  the  introduction  of  Pa- 
rolles here  only  hems  the  action.  Besides,  what 
does  Parolles  mean  by  those  "  things  which 
would  derive  me  ill-will  to  speak  of"?  Is  it 
Shakespeare  confessing  his  own  apprehensions  to 
us,  or  a  hint  of  worse  things  undivulged  as  yet  on 
the  part  of  Herbert  or  both?  I  think,  both,  and 
when  we  come  to  study  Cressida  we  shall  find  the 
foul  insinuation  again  and  have  our  worst  suspi- 
cions confirmed.  Shakespeare's  bitterness  was 
so  over-mastering,  his  dislike  of  Herbert  so  in- 
tense, that  he  takes   Mary  Fitton's   side  in  the 

157 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

quarrel  and  tells  the  dangerous  truth  while  hint- 
ing at  darker  secrets. 

This  Identification  of  Bertram  with  Herbert 
fills  up  a  great  gap  In  our  knowledge  with  curious 
completeness,  and  explains  what  otherwise  must 
be  regarded  as  the  most  stupid  and  fundamental 
blunders  In  the  play. 

I  am  especially  delighted  to  find  in  Herbert- 
Bertram's  confession  the  words  "  modern  grace  " 
applied  to  Mary  Fitton.  Some  critics  hold  that 
"  modern  "  should  be  read  "  modest,"  but  I  pre- 
fer "  modern  "  In  our  sense  of  the  word.  I  re- 
gard the  phrase  as  Shakespeare's  acknowledg- 
ment of  Mary  FItton's  novel  witchery.  That 
"  modern  grace  "  is  the  touch  of  inexplicable  en- 
chantment which  I  had  been  looking  for  In  order 
to  understand  his  "  dark  lady's  "  deathless  fasci- 
nation. In  a  later  and  still  better  portrait  of 
Shakespeare's  love,  the  very  same  quality  In  her 
is  selected  for  praise  by  the  coldest  and  most  Im- 
partial of  judges.  In  Antony  and  Cleopatra, 
Caesar  says  of  the  dead  Cleopatra  she  looks 

As  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace. 

One  or  two  words  more  In  general  on  this 
play:  Shakespeare  is  contemptuous  of  character 

158 


JWs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

in  it.  As  in  his  latest  work,  so  towards  the  end 
of  this  play,  whenever  he  is  led  away  by  personal 
feeling,  he  spills  himself  into  this  or  that  char- 
acter almost  indifferently.  Take,  for  example, 
what  the  First  Lord  says : 

The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and  ill 
together:  our  virtues  would  be  proud  if  our  faults 
whipped  them  not ;  and  our  crimes  would  despair,  if  they 
were  not  cherished  by  our  virtues  .  .  . 

This  is  certainly  our  gentle,  fair-minded  Shake- 
speare himself  speaking  without  a  mask. 

The  curious  way  in  which  Lafeu  reads  Pa- 
rolles,  is  very  much  in  the  same  vein  as  Hamlet's 
later  reading  of  Guildenstern  and  Rosencrantz 
and  Osric.  At  length  Shakespeare  sees  the  young 
courtier  as  he  is:  "  There  can  be  no  kernel  in  this 
light  nut  .  .  ."  and  again  "  the  soul  of  this  man 
is  his  clothes." 

It  is  probable  that  shortly  after  betraying  him 
Herbert  drew  away  from  Shakespeare.  Vain 
self-love  generally  teaches  us  to  slight  those 
whom  we  have  injured,  and  as  soon  as  the  pow- 
erful patron  began  to  stand  aloof,  others  fol- 
lowed the  great  lord's  example,  and  Shakespeare 
was  taught  what  fair-weather  friends  are  worth. 
The  curious  point  is  that  he  is  not  bitter  at  first. 
His  bitterness  is  an  after-growth,  sustained  by  his 

159 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

ethical  judgment;  this  Lafeu  does  not  condemn 
ParoUes  as  harshly  as  Hamlet  condemns  Guilden- 
stern  and  Rosencrantz.  Indeed  he  accepts  him 
at  the  end  and  asks  him  to  accompany  him  home ; 
at  least  he  will  find  amusement  in  him.  Gentle 
Shakespeare  could  endure  fools  gladly  as  St.  Paul 
advised,  for  he  managed,  as  Lafeu  tells  us,  to 
"  make  sport  "  with  them. 

Shakespeare  sketched  Lafeu  as  a  wise  old 
nobleman  as  a  companion  picture  to  the  portrait 
of  the  old  Countess,  but  the  picture  of  Lafeu 
suffers  from  an  all-too-close  identification  with 
Shakespeare  himself.  As  in  early  manhood 
Shakespeare  loved  to  picture  a  side  of  himself — 
especially  his  gaiety,  wit,  and  talkativeness — In 
Biron,  Gratlano,  and  Mercutio,  so  in  maturity  he 
loved  to  Incorporate  his  honest  loyalty  in  out- 
spoken old  gentlemen  like  Lafeu,  Gonzalo,  Fla- 
vlus,  Menenlus,  and  Kent. 

The  gem  of  the  play,  however,  for  us  Is  Her- 
bert-Bertram's confession;  it  dates  the  revision; 
the  talk  is  fresh;  It  smacks  of  the  deed,  and  it 
finally  settles  the  problem  of  Shakespeare's  re- 
lations with  Lord  William  Herbert.  I  can  now 
go  on  to  treat  with  perfect  freedom  of  Shake- 
speare's long  love-duel  with  Mary  Fitton. 


160 


CHAPTER    VIII 

JULIUS    C^SAR:    hamlet:    OTHELLO 
Di  te  mi  dolga,  amor. — Michelangelo. 

f  I  ^ HOUGH  Shakespeare's  passion  for  his 
gypsy-wanton  reached  its  burning  meridian 
in  the  sonnets,  the  long  throbbing  afternoon  of 
desire  was  hotter  than  the  full  noontide.  When 
he  cried  his  love  in  the  lyrics,  he  still  hoped  to 
win  or  charm  his  mistress;  but  her  perpetual  un- 
faith  gradually  dried  up  the  affection  and  tender- 
ness in  him  to  the  very  roots,  leaving  only  the  lust 
of  the  flesh.  Again  and  again  the  cruel  desire 
was  whipped  to  frenzy  by  jealousy,  and  grew  In 
intensity  as  his  love  waned  out.  Incidentally  I 
shall  show  that  all  his  great  tragedies  were 
phases  of  his  Insensate  passion  for  this  one 
woman.  She  Inspired  the  first  great  love-song  of 
his  youth,  Romeo  and  Juliet;  she  Inspired,  too, 
the  far  finer  and  more  terrible  tragedy  of  mature 
passion,  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  All  the  plays 
from  1597  on  reek  of  her  presence,  and  Shake- 

161 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

spcarc's  breakdown  In  health  was  due  to  the  fact 
that  he  had  spent  himself  body  and  soul  in  her 
earthy-coarse  service.  When  at  length  she  left 
him  finally,  after  twelve  years  of  passion  and  a 
scbre  of  betrayals,  to  be  married  for  the  second 
time  early  in  1608,  he  fell,  to  use  Dante's  phrase, 
"  as  a  dead  body  falls  " — never  to  recover  com- 
pletely. If  ever  a  man  was  passion's  slave  it  was 
Shakespeare.  We  have  now  to  follow  his  agony 
from  the  sonnets  to  height  after  height  where 
foot  of  guide  has  never  yet  passed;  for  the  lover 
was  Shakespeare,  and  every  fluctuation  of  the 
"  madding  fever  "  was  marked  with  a  new  mas- 
terpiece. 

A  great  many  English  critics  are  Intent  on 
telling  me  that  In  painting  Shakespeare  in  this 
way  I  am  denigrating  him,  turning  him  from  a 
deml-god  Into  a  mere  man.  At  the  very  begin- 
ning of  my  labour,  Meredith  warned  me  that 
"  Englishmen  will  not  readily  accept  this  picture 
of  Shakespeare  languishing  and  burning."  But 
they  are  accepting  it,  it  would  appear;  for  truth 
carries  with  It  a  magic  of  persuasion,  and  they 
will  yet  come  to  see  that,  instead  of  diminishing 
and  degrading  Shakespeare,  I  am  bringing  him 
nearer  to  their  love  and  affection  by  showing  him 
pure  human. 

162 


Julius  Ccesar:  Hamlet:  Othello 

The  greatest  souls  are  just  those  most  certain 
to  fall  victims  to  this  passion.  Goethe's  best  dra- 
matic scenes  came  through  his  love  for  Frederica, 
and  if  he  had  written  his  enthraUing  passion  for 
his  drunken  cook-wife  he  would  probably  have 
done  infinitely  better  work  than  by  speculating  on 
theories  of  light.  He  knew  a  great  deal  about 
passion  and  its  infinite  forgiveness  and  indulgence 
and  very  little  about  colour-waves. 

Dante,  too,  has  told  us  how  easily  gentle  hearts 
are  moved  to  love : 

Amor,  che  al  cor  gentil  ratto  s'apprende. 

And  Beatrice  had  to  reproach  him  with  many 
infidelities. 

Michelangelo,  who  was  certainly  strong  among 
the  strongest,  had  to  confess  his  utter  inability  to 
free  himself  from  the  bonds  of  desire: 

Amor,  se  tu  se'  Dio 

Scioglimi,  deh !  delF  alma  i  lacci  tuoi. 

It  is  no  disgrace  to  our  gentle  Shakespeare  to 
have  been  enmeshed  in  the  same  net,  for  no  one 
ever  turned  his  thralldom  to  such  account.  His 
passion  can  be  studied  in  drama  after  drama,  the 
mere  names  of  which  have  become  tragic  symbols 
in  the  consciousness  of  humanity. 

For  the  first  three  or  four  years  of  his  intimacy 
163 


The  Wo7nen  of  Shakespeare 

he  continually  painted  both  realistic  and  idealistic 
portraits  of  his  mistress.  About  the  year  1600 
the  idealistic  portraits  cease.  The  reason  is  in- 
dicated. In  the  last  sonnet  to  his  dark  love  one 
line  wells  up  from  the  depths  of  despair: 

And  all  my  honest  faith  in  thee  is  lost. 

From  this  time  on  he  gave  up  trying  to  idealize  | 
Mary  Fitton.  A  little  later  and  he  will  paint  her 
to  the  life  cruelly,  strip  her  to  the  skin  and 
scourge  her  with  his  contempt  and  hate  till  we  are 
forced  to  pity  her  and  take  sides  against  him  as 
a  slanderer  and  a  caricaturist  who  has  forgotten 
in  his  jealous  rage  the  high  impartiality  of  the  ar- 
tist. But  all  the  while  the  idealizing  tendency 
was  in  him,  and  if  he  could  not  employ  it  in  paint- 
ing Mary  Fitton  as  Julia  or  Portia  or  Beatrice, 
he  had  to  use  it  on  imaginary  figures.  His  mis- 
tress's faithlessness  made  him  long  for  winnowed 
purity  and  devoted  affection,  and  he  gave  name 
if  not  reality  to  this  desire  of  his  nature  in 
Ophelia,  Desdemona,  and  Cordelia.  . 

More  than  almost  any  other  great  artist,  Shake- 
speare needed  the  support  of  actual  life.  Give 
him  the  realistic  features  and  hewill  paint  a  death- 
less portrait,  now  of  Hotspur,  now  of  the  Nurse, 
but  without  the  help  of  reality  he  floats  about  in 

164 


Julius  CcBsar:  Hamlet:  Othello 

the  blue.  His  Ophelia  and  his  Desdemona  have 
no  redeeming  vices  or  weaknesses  whatsoever. 
Ophelia  can  only  weep  and  go  crazy  when  Ham- 
let insults  her,  and  when  Othello  outrages  and 
strikes  Desdemona  she  too  weeps  and  forgives 
him,  while  wondering  what  her  trickling  eyes  may 
portend.  Mary  Fitton's  high  temper  and  mas- 
culine strength  put  Shakespeare  out  of  love  with 
spirit  and  courage  and  marked  individuality  in 
women:  Ophelia  and  Desdemona  are  mere  ab- 
stractions of  patience  and  affection — pale  sister- 
souls,  in  fact,  or  bloodless  sister-effigies;  hardly 
a  taint  of  earthly  temper  or  tincture  of  warm  hu- 
manity in  either  of  them. 

In  Twelfth  Night  we  see  the  first  tendency  to 
vague  idealization  coming  to  view.  Viola,  with 
her  resignation  and  patience,  is  the  first  sketch, 
so  to  speak,  of  Ophelia.  But  the  outline  wavers; 
''  she  never  told  her  love,"  we  are  assured  in  a 
famous  passage,  while  a  little  later  we  learn  that  y^ 
she  told  her  love  for  Duke  Orsino  again  and 
again. 

In  contempt  'of  my  efforts  the  professors  will 
not  see  any  connection  between  Shakespeare's  ex- 
periences as  a  lover  and  his  Hamlet.  Professor 
Herford  says :  "  Nothing  that  we  know  of  Shake- 
speare's personal  history  really  explains  the  start- 

165 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

ling  and  sudden  intensity  of  personal  accent  in 
Hamlet  or  the  changed  outlook  upon  the  world 
which  here  first  becomes  apparent."  One  can 
only  stare  at  this  black  diamond.  Shakespeare 
has  sung  his  love  in  every  stage:  the  young  de- 
light of  it  in  Juliet  and  Portia;  the  courtings  and 
the  deceptions  in  Rosaline  and  Rosalind.  He  has 
painted  his  jealous  misery  for  us  in  the  sonnets; 
the  *' potions  "  he  drank  of  "Siren  tears";  the 
*'  hell  of  time  "  he  endured.  As  Brutus  he  is  in 
love  with  despair  and  goes  to  death  willingly. 
Yet  the  self-elected  guides  find  in  all  this  no  ex- 
planation of  what  they  are  pleased  to  call  his 
''  changed  outlook  upon  the  world,"  which  they 
declare  "  first  becomes  apparent "  In  Hamlet, 
Let  us  now  consider  this,  the  second  of  the  great 
tragedies. 

Hamlet  Is  generally  dated  through  its  refer- 
ence to  the  success  of  the  child-players  about 
1601:  it  follows  immediately  on  Julius  Casar 
and  the  sonnets. 

As  I  have  shown  elsewhere,  the  dominant  pas- 
sions of  Hamlet  are  jealousy  of  his  mother's  sin 
and  a  desire  to  revenge  himself  on  his  uncle,  his 
l"»vc  f r  ■  ^  '^^^'1  i*^  merely  Incidental.  The  most 
marked  peculiarity  in  the  play  is  so  grotesque 
that  it  shocks  one:  no  son  ever  spoke  of  a  motb- 

166 


Julius  CcBsar:  Hamlet:  Othello 

cr's  unfaith  with  the  passionate  bitterness  of 
Hamlet.  In  spite  of  the  Ghost's  warning  to  him 
not  to  taint  his  mind  or  contrive  aught  against 
his  mother,  but  to  leave  her  to  Heaven  and  her 
own  remorse,  Hamlet  has  gone  about  with 
thoughts  of  murdering  her.  The  mere  idea  is 
astounding,  but  here  are  his  words: 


Let  me  be  cruel,  not  unnatural 

I  will  speak  daggers  to  her;  but  use  none. 


And  a  line  or  two  later  the  thought  crops  up 
again.  He  Is  far  more  bitter  than  his  murdered 
father. 

It  Is  manifest  from  his  extravagance  of  anger 
that  Hamlet-Shakespeare  Is  thinking  of  his  mis- 
tress's lechery  and  not  of  his  mother's;  he  cries 
at  her: 

Have  you  eyes.'* 
Could  you  on  this  fair  mountain  leave  to  feed. 
And  batten  on  this  moor?      Ha!  have  you  eyes.''  .  .  . 

.  .  .  What  devil  was't 
That  thus  hath  cozen'd  you  at  hoodman-blind  ? 
Eyes  without  feeling,  feeling  without  sight, 
Ears  without  hands  or  eyes,  smelling  sans  all. 
Or  but  a  sickly  part  of  one  true  sense 
Could  not  so  mope. 
O  shame!  where  is  thy  blush?  .  .  . 

Maddened  with  jealousy,  he  scourges  himself 
167 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

with  his  own  lewd  imaginings  as  Othello  and 
Posthumus  scourge  themselves.  It  is  only  a 
professor  or  commentator,  or  some  expert  in 
cloistered  ignorance,  who  could  believe  that  a 
man  feels  this  intensity  of  jealous  rage  about  a 
mother's  sin.  The  very  idea  is  worse  than  ab- 
surd. It  is  one's  own  passion-torture  that  speaks 
in  such  words  as  these.  And  Hamlet  strikes  this 
note  again  and  again  with  the  persistence  of  in- 
cipient mania,  and  again  and  again  finds  death- 
less, painting  w^ords  for  his  insane  jealousy. 
Though  the  Queen  begs  him  to  "  speak  no 
more,"  he  raves  on: 

.  .  .  Nay,  but  to  live 
In  the  rank  sweat  of  an  enseamed  bed 
Stew'd  in  corruption,  honeying  and  making  love 
Over  the  nasty  sty — 

It  is  the  act  that  maddens  him,  as  it  always 
maddened  Shakespeare.  But  bitter  as  is  Ham- 
let's view  of  his  mother's  (Mary  Fitton's)  sin,  it 
is  still  the  bitterness  of  disappointed  love  and  is 
not  without  hope:  he  will  have  her  repent,  re- 
frain from  adultery  and  be  pure  and  good  again: 

.  .  Confess  yourself  to  heaven; 
Repent  what's  past;  avoid  what  is  to  come; 
And  do  not  spread  the  compost  on  the  weeds 
To  make  them  ranker.  .  .  . 
Queen.     O  Hamlet,  thou  hast  cleft  my  heart  in  twain. 

168 


Julius  CcBsar:  Hamlet:  Othello 

Hamlet.  O,  throw  away  the  worser  part  of  it. 

And  live  the  purer  with  the  other  half. 
Good  night:  but  go  not  to  mine  uncle's  bed; 
Assume  a  virtue,  if  you  have  it  not  .   .   . 
For    use    almost    can    change    the    stamp    of 
nature.  .   .  . 

It  is  all  directed  at  his  mistress:  he  still  hopes 
for  her  reformation;  but  he  sees  no  good  what- 
ever in  the  King.  The  King  (Herbert)  is  mil- 
dewed and  foul  in  comparison  with  his  modest 
poet-rival — *'  a  satyr  to  Hyperion  "  : 

A  slave  that  is  not  twentieth  part  the  tithe 
Of  your  precedent  lord.  .  .  . 

The  extravagance  of  the  comparison  shows 
the  personal  feeling  which  quickens  this  whole 
play.  Take  even  what  the  Ghost  says,  and  read 
it  carefully: 

Ay,  that  incestuous,  that  adulterate  beast. 
With  witchcraft  of  his  wit,  with  traitorous  gifts,- 
0  wicked  wit  and  gifts  that  have  the  power 
So  to  seduce ! — won  to  his  shameful  lust 
The  will  of  my  most  seeming-virtuous  queen: 
O  Hamlet,  what  a  falling  off  was  there !  .  .  . 

The  italics  are  mine.  It  is  all  in  rha^acterj  If 
you  will  at  first,  but  it  soon  shrills  out  of  char- 
acter: 

...  to  decline 
Upon  a  wretch  whose  natural  gifts  were  poor 
To  those  of  mine!  .  .  . 

169 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

This  surely  gives  us  rather  Shakespeare's  real 
feeling  towards  Pembroke  than  the  Ghost's,  and 
then  we  come  to  a  reflection  which  is  certainly 
Shakespeare's: 

But  virtue,  as  it  never  will  be  moved, 
Tliough  lewdness  court  it  in  a  shape  of  heaven, 
So  lust,  though  to  a  radiant  angel  link'd. 
Will  sate  itself  in  a  celestial  bad. 
And  prey  on  garbage.  .  .  . 

The  chief  faults  In  the  play  can  be  explained 
naturally  by  this  hypothesis  of  mine,  and  by  this 
hypothesis  alone.  Hearing  Polonius  behind  the 
arras,  Hamlet  plucks  out  his  sword  and  kills 
him,  mistaking  him  for  the  King.  Kindly,  hu- 
mane, reflective  Hamlet  would  naturally  be  filled 
with  remorse  for  this  rash,  thoughtless  deed, 
and  at  first  this  Is  the  note  Shakespeare  strikes: 
Hamlet  echoes  his  mother  and  calls  It  a  "  bloody 
deed;  "  "  I  do  repent,"  he  says;  but  later,  when 
we  expect  the  cooler  blood  of  regret  to  come  to 
full  utterance,  he  talks  of  Polonius  with  incred- 
ible harsh  contempt: 

I'll  lug  the  guts  into  the  neighbour  room.  .  .  . 

One  Is  shocked,  appalled  by  this  unnatural  cruelty 
of  Hamlet,  which  Is  totally  out  of  character.  It 
seems   to   me    that    Shakespeare    Is    here    again 

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Julius  CcBsar:  Hamlet:  Othello 

thinking  of  Herbert,  the  real  object  of  his  hate, 
whom  often  in  imagination  he  had  killed  with 
one  quick  thrust  and  dismissed  from  memory  as 
"  a  foolish,  prating  knave." 

There  are  scores  of  proofs  of  the  very  obvious 
fact  that  Shakespeare  has  got  a  passionate  in- 
tensity into  this  somewhat  unreal  tragedy  by 
identifying  the  chief  actors  in  it  with  his  rival 
and  his  mistress.  The  discrepancies  in  the  play 
are  not  otherwise  to  be  explained:  for  example, 
/we  all  expect  froiTL  Hamlet  some  expression  of 
divine  tenderness  for  Ophelia,  but  the  scenes 
with  the  pure  devoted  girl  whom  he  is  supposed 
to  love  are  not  half  realized,  are  nothing  like  so 
intense  as  the  scenes  with  the  guilty  mother.  Yet 
love  should  surely  be  stronger  than  jealousy  of 
one's  mother.  Shakespeare  did  not  take  interest 
enough  in  Ophelia  to  give  her  flesh  and  blood. 

Another  jar  which  plays  informer:  Laertes 
finds  the  best  word  for  his  unhappy  sister:  she 
turned  everything  ''  to  favour  and  to  pretti- 
ness."  Why,  then,  as  soon  as  she  goes  mad 
does  Shakespeare  make  her  talk  smut?  Why 
does  even  Flamlet  talk  suggestively  to  her  in  the 
theatre  scene?  Of  course  I  shall  be  told  that 
all  this  is  due  to  Shakespeare's  deep  insight  into 
human   nature;   but    in    a    slight    and   charming 

171 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

sketch  such  as  Ophelia  was  meant  to  be,  this  ob- 
scene coarseness  Is  a  blunder.  The  truth  Is, 
while  writing  this  play  Shakespeare  was  writhing 
In  jealous  misery;  he  sees  the  sexual  act  every- 
where, and  defiles  his  heroine  with  his  mistress's 
lewdness. 

At  their  first  meeting  Hamlet  talks  smut  to 
Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  though  suggestive 
speech  Is  not  In  tune  with  brooding  melancholy. 
The  fact  is  we  can  trace  In  him  the  beginning  of 
the  erotic  mania  which  Is  to  be  found  In  almost 
every  tragedy  from  this  time  on.  I  shall  not  la- 
bour this  statement;  it  Is  self-evident,  and  the 
proofs  of  it  will  have  to  be  repeated  again  and 
again. 

After  his  betrayal  Shakespeare  went  about 
nursing  his  jealousy  to  monomania — nursing,  too, 
bitter  thoughts  of  revenge  on  Herbert,  though 
he  knew  well  enough  that  he  did  not  piossess  the 
desperate  resolution  to  carry  them  Into  act. 
Lackey-like,  he  had  to  admit  that  mere  regard 
for  position  and  power  would  give  him  stop: 
Herbert  was  too  far  above  him: 

There's  such  divinity  doth  hedge  a  king 
That  treason  can  but  peep  to  what  it  would. 

But  Shakespeare  felt  very  acutely  that  any  young 

172 


Julius  Ccesar:  Hamlet:  Othello 

nobleman  in  his  position  would  have  had  no 
scruples  on  the  matter;  Laertes  strides  to  his 
revenge  with  instant,  conscienceless  resolve. 
Shakespeare  knew  that  his  own  gentleness  and 
dislike  of  violence  were  in  themselves  nobler: 

The  rarer  action  is 
In  virtue  than  in  vengeance.   .   .   . 

And  thus  Hamlet  becomes  more  lovable  to  us 
through  his  very  hesitation  and  horror  of  blood- 
shed. 

Hamlet  is  a  magnificent  study  of  the  literary 
temperament,  and  the  picture  Is  made  dramatic 
by  the  passionate  realization  of  the  hero's  long- 
ing for  jealousy  and  revenge. 

Hamlet's  love  for  Ophelia  is  scarcely  strong 
enough  to  deserve  the  name,  but  his  jealousy  is  a 
raging,  burning  fever. 

Get  thee  to  a  nunnery:  why  wouldst  thou  be  a  breeder 
of  sinners? 

Is  all  he  can  say  to  Ophelia,  but  to  his  mother  he 
raves  as  one  possessed: 

Not  this^  by  no  means,  that  I  bid  you  do: 
Let  the  bloat  king  tempt  you  again  to  bed; 
Pinch  wanton  on  your  cheek;  call  you  his  mouse; 
And  let  him,  for  a  pair  of  reechy  kisses, 
Or  paddling  in  your  neck  wath  his  damn'd  fingers  .  .  • 

173 


The  fVomen  oj  Shakespeare 

The  jealous  rage  is  already  almost  maniacal  in 
intensity. 

Othello  Is  a  far  finer  and  more  complete  study 
of  jealousy  and  revenge  than  Hamlet,  The  jeal- 
ous rage  of  the  sonnets  is  lifted  In  Hamlet  to  a 
higher  pitch,  and  in  Othello  is  further  intensified 
to  deadly  menace  and  murder  by  a  superb  and 
natural  plot.  Hamlet^s  jealousy  is  unnatural;  but 
Othello's  jealousy  of  Desdemona  Is  almost  in- 
evitable; It  Is  reason-founded  on  difference  of  | 
colour,  education,  and  surroundings,  and  is  | 
whipped  to  madness  by  vile  and  envious  sugges-  J 
tlon. 

Hamlet  is  Shakespeare  himself,  while  Othello 
at  first  is  a  marionette  of  v/hom  we  have  no  In- 
timate understanding.  I  have  pointed  out  else- 
where that  Othello  Is  a  fair  sketch  from  the  out- 
side of  a  man  of  action  until  he  becomes  jealous, 
when  he  Is  used  as  the  mere  mouthpiece  of  Shake- 
speare's own  passion.  For  a  master  of  men 
Othello  Is  a  surprisingly  apt  subject  of  jealousy, 
being  exceedingly  quick  of  apprehension  and 
easily  convinced  on  mere  surmise.  He  passes, 
too,  at  once  to  vengeance,  and  will  glut  his  hate 
not  only  on  Desdemona,  but  on  Casslo.  But  the 
quick  change  In  the  painting  of  Othello  from  the 
bluff  Captain  to  the  poet-lover  is  not   so   soul- 

174 


Julius  CcBsar:  Hamlet:  Othello 

revealing  as  the  fact  that  in  Othello  Shakespeare 
has  given  us  the  finest  words  for  desire  and  jeal- 
ousy in  the  language : 

.  .  .  O  thou  weed 
Who  art  so  lovely-fair  and  smell'st  so  sweet. 
That  the  sense  aches  at  thee ! 

Passion  never  found  a  more  splendid  phrase; 
and  it  does  not  stand  alone.  When  Desdemona 
lands  Cassio  cries  in  Shakespeare's  very  voice: 

The  riches  of  the  ship  is  come  on  shore. 

And  a  little  later  Othello  calls  Desdemona : 

My  soul's  joy  .  .  . 
and  again: 

Excellent  wretch. 

And  if  desire  is  enthrallingly  rendered,  jealousy 
finds  an  even  intenser  note:  Othello's  cry  is 
astounding: 

I  had  been  happy,  if  the  general  camp. 
Pioneers  and  all,  had  tasted  her  sweet  body 
So  I  had  nothing  known.  .  .  . 

That  "  sweet  body  "  is  incomparable. 

The  plain  proof  that  Shakespeare  in  all  this  is 
putting  himself  in  Othello's  place  and  speaking 
of  Mary  Fitton  is  at  hand.  Othello  praises 
Desdemona   as   a    "  sweet   creature  ...  an   ad- 

175 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

mirable  musician  " :  "  O,  she  will  sing  the  sav- 
ageness  out  of  a  bear:  of  so  high  and  plenteous 
wit  and  invention." 

Now  consider  these  qualities.  We  never  knew 
before  that  Desdemona  was  an  ''  admirable  mu- 
sician ";  while  we  have  already  learned  from  the 
clown  that  Othello  "  does  not  greatly  care  to  hear 
music."  How  are  we  to  explain  this  manifest 
contradiction?  Shakespeare  makes  all  his  men 
of  action,  such  as  Hotspur  and  Harry  V.,  dislike 
music,  and  he  begins  by  lending  Othello  the  same 
defect;  but  here  in  his  jealous  rage  he  forgets  his 
puppet's  qualities,  thinking  only  of  himself.  He 
loved  music,  as  he  has  shown  in  a  score  of  plays, 
and  his  "  dark  lady "  of  the  sonnets  often 
charmed  him  with  her  playing.  Sonnet  128  be- 
gins : 

How  oft  when  thou,  my  music,  music  play*st. 

It  is  Mary  Fitton  who*  Shakespeare  feels  could 
sing  the  "  savageness  out  of  a  bear."  Fancy, 
too,  telling  us  that  poor,  patient,  superstitious 
Desdemona  was  of  "  high  and  plenteous  wit  and 
invention."  Shakespeare's  Rosaline  was  witty, 
as  we  know;  his  "dark  lady"  of  the  sonnets 
too;  but  hardly  Desdemona.  Evidently  Shake- 
speare is  here  thinking  of  his  own  mistress. 

176 


Julius  CcBsar:  Hamlet:  Othello 

As  soon  as  jealousy  Is  touched  upon,  Shake- 
speare puts  himself  unconsciously  In  Othello's 
place  and  Desdemona  becomes  his  wanton  love. 
From  that  moment  to  the  end  of  the  play  Shake- 
speare Is  Othello,  and  there  are  no  pages  In  all 
literature  of  a  more  Intimate  self-revealing.  By 
his  gentle  fair-mindedness  alone  we  ought  to  rec- 
ognize him: 

O  lago,  the  pity  of  it;  the  pity  of  it,  lago ! 

But  In  truth  the  whole  passion  Is  the  passion  of 
jealousy  as  Shakespeare  conceived  It.  As  I  have 
shown  in  my  book,  The  Man  Shakespeare,  Post- 
humus,  an  alter  ego  of  Shakespeare,  speaks  of 
Imogen  exactly  as  Othello  speaks  of  Desdemona. 
Hamlet  raves  about  his  mother's  fault  In  pre- 
cisely the  same  strain  as  the  King  In  The  Win- 
ter's Tale  raves  about  his  wife's  supposed  slip; 
they  all  picture  the  act  and  excite  themselves  to 
mad  rage  by  their  own  imagining.  In  all  these 
plays  the  hero  suspects  some  women  of  faithless- 
ness, and  usually  the  woman  he  loves. 

There  is  another  passage  in  Othello  which  al- 
ludes, I  believe,  to  Shakespeare's  connection  with 
Mary  Fitton,  and  gives  us,  to  a  certain  extent, 
his  explanation  of  why  she  played  false  to  him. 
lago  says: 

177 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

When  the  blood  is  made  dull  with  the  act  of  sport, 
there  should  be  again  to  inflame  it,  and  to  give  satiety  a 
fresh  appetite,  loveliness  in  favour,  sympathy  in  years, 
manners  and  beauties.  .  .  . 

All  this  applies  to  the  Moor  if  you  will,  but  it 
applies  to  Shakespeare,  too,  and  his  position.  In 
that  word  "  manners  "  there  is  to  me  a  glance 
at  young  Herbert  and  Mary  Fitton,  else  why  was 
it  brought  in? — for  there  is  no  hint  of  any  such 
difference  between  Othello  and  Desdemona, 
though  such  a  difference  could  be  presumed.  I 
find  an  intimate  thoughtfulness  in  the  words, 
which  shows  me  they  are  personal:  they  supply 
the  reason,  too,  why  Shakespeare  should  handle 
this  theme  of  the  inferiority  of  an  older  man  to 
the  woman  he  loves,  and  fulfil  it  with  such  intense 
passion.  Like  his  Othello,  Shakespeare  loved 
**  not  wisely  but  too  well." 

It  is,  perhaps,  worth  while  to  notice  that  even 
in  the  surge  and  rage  of  jealous  madness  Othello- 
Shakespeare  remains  an  Englishman  and  a  mor- 
alist, or,  as  a  foreigner  might  say,  a  hypocrite. 
Othello  will  kill  Desdemona  with  the  sword  of 
"  justice,"  will  murder  even  from  a  high,  unsel- 
fish motive — to  prevent  her  betraying  "  more 
men." 

But  as  I  have  said  elsewhere,  what  interests  us 
178 


Julius  CcBsar:  Hamlet:  Othello 

in  Othello  is  not  his  strength  but  his  weakness, 
Shakespeare's  weakness — his  passion  and  pity, 
his  torture,  rage,  jealousy,  and  remorse,  the  suc- 
cessive stages  of  his  soul's  calvary. 

Macbeth  I  need  only  glance  at  here,  for  I  have 
handled  it  elsewhere  at  great  length  in  order  to 
prove  that  Macbeth  is  Hamlet  over  again  in 
every  quality  and  every  defect.  Lady  Macbeth 
is  just  as  manifestly  an  embodiment  of  the 
strength  and  resolution  of  the  poet's  mistress. 
In  fact,  these  are  the  dominant  characteristics 
which  Shakespeare  so  admired  in  his  "dark  lady." 
Take  sonnet  150: 

O,  from  what  power  hast  thou  this  powerful  might 
With  insufficiency  my  heart  to  sway?  .  .  . 

Whence  hast  thou  this  becoming  of  things  ill, 
That  in  the  very  refuse  of  thy  deeds 
There  is  such  strength  and  warranties  of  skill 
That,  in  my  mind,  thy  worst  all  best  exceeds?  .  .  . 

But  in  spite  of  being  closely  connected  with 
Shakespeare  himself  through  both  the  hero  and 
the  heroine,  Macbeth  as  a  play  lies  on  the  con- 
fines of  Shakespeare's  activity:  it  reminds  me  of 
Richard  III.  The  action  is  in  no  way  suited  to 
Shakespeare's  character,  and  though  he  discovers 
his  inmost  feelings  to  us  in  the  person  of  Mac- 

179 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

beth,  our  sympathy  is  perpetually  dammed  by 
the  conviction  that  this  literary,  lovable,  humane, 
pious  Shakespeare-Macbeth  would  not  have  mur- 
dered a  fly,  much  less  the  kindly,  courteous  Dun- 
can. 

Lady  Macbeth  is  not  one  of  Shakespeare's 
happier  creations.  It  is  impossible  to  make  a 
woman  credible  to  us  by  lending  her  a  man's 
resolution  and  courage.  True,  Lady  Macbeth 
breaks  down  after  the  murder;  but  the  fact  is 
we  know  hardly  anything  about  her.  Did  she 
even  love  Macbeth?  She  Is  merely  a  marble- 
hard  outline  like  the  heroine  of  a  Greek  tragedy. 

The  interest  of  Macbeth  is  not  so  much  the 
Interest  of  character  or  even  the  Interest  of 
drama,  though  the  action  is  exciting  enough  in 
all  conscience  and  well  developed,  but  the  inter- 
est of  divine  poetry.  Shakespeare  has  lent  his 
alter  ego  Macbeth  his  own  singing  robe,  and  has 
embroidered  it  with  magnificent  lyric  after  lyric 
of  his  own  disillusion  and  despair. 


180 


CHAPTER    IX 

LEAR   AND   TIMON :    EROTIC    MANIA 

rriHE  tragedies  which  follow  after  the  sonnets 
are  distinguished  by  ever-increasing  passion 
and  bitterness.  The  mere  names  are  like  steps 
leading  down  into  the  dark  places  of  desire  and 
despair:  Julius  Casar,  Hamlet,  Othello. 

Macbeth  is  more  bitter  than  any  of  these;  but 
it  has  no  lust  in  it,  and  consequently  is  not  so 
complete  an  index  to  Shakespeare's  soul. 

Then  follow  two  tragedies  whose  action  has 
nothing  on  earth  to  do  with  passion:  the  ingrati- 
tude of  Lear's  daughters  has  no  connection  with 
sex,  and  Timon's  misanthropy  is  of  generosity 
pushed  to  an  extreme  and  not  of  desire. 

The  interest  of  these  tragedies  does  not  de- 
pend mainly  on  the  portraiture  of  women,  still 
the  pictures  of  women  In  them  throw  light  on 
the  author's  mental  condition  and  the  Intense 
passion  of  both  dramas  Is  derived  directly  from 
Shakespeare's  disappointments  with  his  wanton 
mistress. 

181 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

With  that  common  sense  which  Is  the  obverse 
of  insight,  Tolstoi  has  pointed  out  the  faults  in 
Lear;  what  a  foolish  old  man  was  Lear,  he  says, 
not  to  have  known  his  daughters  better  I  It  Is 
just  this  foolish  blindness  which  Shakespeare 
wishes  to  exaggerate  in  order  to  deepen  for  us 
the  pathos  of  Lear's  disproportionate  punish- 
ment: 

...  I  am  a  man 
More  sinned  against  than  sinning. 

I  have  been  hotly  criticized  for  speaking  of  the 
"  erotic  mania  "  which  Shakespeare  puts  to  view 
in  Lear.  But  no  milder  words  would  render  the 
intensity  of  my  impression.  Gonerll  and  Regan 
are  both  wantons  and  both  In  heat  for  the  base 
Edmund:  Gonerll  in  especial,  by  reason  of  her 
bold  passion  and  resolution,  reminds  me  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  and  so  at  one  remove  recalls  Shake- 
speare's dark  mistress.  She  talks  of  her  hus- 
band Albany,  just  as  Lady  Macbeth  talked  of 
her  husband.     Lady  Macbeth  said: 

Yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature. 
It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
To  catch  the  nearest  way. 

And  this  Gonerll  speaks  contemptuously  of  Al- 
bany's *'  milky  gentleness,"  and  declares  that  he 

will  be : 

188 


Lear  and  Timon:  Erotic  Mania 

.  .  .  more  attask'd  for  want  of  wisdom 
Than  praised  for  harmful  mildness. 

But  It  Is  not  the  unconditioned  lechery  of  Goneril 
and  Regan  alone  that  gives  Lear  Its  character 
of  erotic  mania.  Nearly  every  character  In  the 
play  talks  bawd  on  every  possible  occasion, 
though  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  action  and 
IS  wholly  out  of  keeping  with  the  seriousness  of 
the  tragedy. 

Edmund  the  villain  begins  by  attacking  man's 
hypocrisy  In  attributing  his  own  faults  to  "  planet- 
ary influence  " — *'  an  admirable  evasion  of  whore- 
master  man,  to  lay  his  goatish  disposition  to  the 
charge  of  a  star!  "  Then  the  fool,  who  is  the 
mere  embodiment  of  common  sense,  loses  no  op- 
portunity of  showing  the  same  bias:  In  the  fifth 
scene  of  the  first  act  he  begins  without  provoca- 
tion: 

She  that's  a  maid  now,  and  laughs  at  my  departure, 
Shall  not  be  a  maid  long,  unless  things  be  cut  shorter. 

Edgar,  too,  who,  as  I  have  elsewhere  shown. 
Is  another  alter  ego  of  Shakespeare  himself,  Is 
almost  as  loose-lipped.  He  tells  Lear  he  was  a 
serving-man  who  "  served  the  lust  of  my  mis- 
tress's heart,  and  did  the  act  of  darkness  with 
her,"  and  as  if  that  were  not  enough,  goes  on  to 
assert  that  he  "  out-paramoured  the  Turk,"  and 

183 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

finally  warns  poor  old  Lear,  of  all  men  in  the 
world,  to  keep  his  "  foot  out  of  brothels  "  and 
his  "  hand  out  of  plackets."  And  silver-haired 
Lear  himself,  through  whom  Shakespeare  speaks 
in  the  last  acts  as  ingenuously  as  through  Edgar, 
is  obsessed  with  the  same  rank  thoughts.  When 
Gloucester  asks : 

Is't  not  the  king.^ 

Lear  answers: 

Ay,  every  inch  a  king: 
When  I  do  stare,  see  how  the  subject  quakes. 
I   pardon  that  man's   life.     What  was  thy  cause? 
Adultery  .^ 

Thou  shalt  not  die :  die  for  adultery !     No : 
The  wren  goes  to't,  and  the  small  gilded  fly 
Does  lecher  in  my  sight. 

Let  copulation  thrive;  for  Gloucester's  bastard  son 
Was  kinder  to  his  father  than  my  daughters 
Got  'tween  the  lawful  sheets. 
To't,  luxury,  pell-mell!  for  I  lack  soldiers. 
Behold  yond  simpering  dame. 
Whose  face  between  her  forks  presageth  snow; 
That  minces  virtue,  and  does  shake  the  head 
To  hear  of  pleasure's  name; 
The  fitchew,  nor  the  soiled  horse,  goes  to't 
With  a  more  riotous  appetite. 
Down  from  the  waist  they  are  Centaurs, 
Though  woman  all  above: 
But  to  the  girdle  do  the  gods  inherit. 
Beneath  is  all  the  fiends' ; 

There's  hell,  there's  darkness,  there's  the  sulphurous  pit. 
Burning,  scalding,  stench,  consumption ;  fie,  fie,  fie !  pah, 
pah!  Give  me  an  ounce  of  civet,  good  apothecary,  to 
sweeten  my  imagination.  .  .  . 

184 


Lear  and  Timon:  Erotic  Mania 

No  wonder  he  begs  for  civet  to  sweeten  his  im- 
agination. The  whole  subject  is  dragged  in  by 
the  hair;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  his  age  or 
place  or  condition;  in  fact,  it  is  out  of  tune  with 
all  three.    And  Lear's  next  speech  is  just  as  bad; 

Thou  rascal  beadle,  hold  thy  bloody  hand! 

Why  dost  thou  lash  that  whore?     Strip  thine  own  back; 

Thou  hotly  lust'st  to  use  her  in  that  kind 

For  which  thou  whipp'st  her.  .  .  . 

The  truth  is,  his  mistress's  faithlessness  has  got 
on  Shakespeare's  nerves  and  his  very  thoughts 
are  tainted  with  her  wantonness:  it  is  not  his 
daughters'  ingratitude  that  Lear-Shakespeare  is 
thinking  of  any  more  than  Hamlet  was  thinking 
of  his  mother's  lechery,  it  is  his  faithless  mistress 
who  has  infected  the  poet's  imagination.  Miss 
Fitton  had  got  into  Shakespeare's  blood,  and  he 
lends  Lear  the  very  word  for  the  obsession: 

...  a  disease  that's  in  my  flesh, 
Which  I  must  needs  call  mine:  thou  art  a  boil, 
A  plague-sore,  an  embossed  carbuncle 
In  my  corrupted  blood.  .  .  . 

As  if  to  convince  us  that  this  explanation  is  the 
true  one,  and  that  Shakespeare  is  always  thinking 
of  his  wanton-mistress,  the  fool  tells  us  that  "  he's 
mad  who  trusts  in  the  tameness  of  a  wolf  .  .  . 

185 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

a  hoy's  love,  or  a  whore' s  oath.*'    The  italics  are 
mine. 

The  tragedy  of  Lear  is  based  upon  Shake- 
speare's understanding  of  his  insane,  blind  trust 
in  men  and  women;  but  the  intense  passion  of  the 
play,  as  I  must  insist  again,  springs  from  erotic 
mania,  and  from  the  consciousness  that  he  is 
growing  too  old  for  love's  lists.  Perhaps  Shake- 
speare's imagination  never  carried  him  higher 
than  when  Lear  appeals  to  the  heavens  because 
they,  too,  are  old: 

.  .  .  O  heavens. 
If  you  do  love  old  men,  if  your  sweet  sway 
Allow  obedience,  if  yourselves  are  old. 
Make  it  your  cause. 

Timon  breeds  new  thoughts  in  me;  it  is  a  poor 
play,  and  yet  it  increases  my  admiration  of  Shake- 
speare's wisdom,  and  in  proportion  diminishes 
my  already  chastened  opinion  of  his  commenta- 
tors. 

The  poets  and  professors  are  all  agreed  that 
"  large  tracts  of  Timon  are  not  the  work  of 
Shakespeare."  The  critics  by  trade  have 
mapped  it  out  indeed,  ascribing  these  lines  to 
him  and  those  to  someone  else.  Long  ago  I 
found  reason  to  attribute  much  more  of  it  to 
Shakespeare  than  was  generally  believed.     But 

186 


Lear  and  Timon:  Erotic  Mania 

the  Incredible  audacity  of  the  professors,  their 
unanimity,  their  serene  conviction  imposed  on 
me;  for  years  I  believed  that  there  must  be  some 
armature  of  truth  to  uphold  the  great  jelly-like 
figure  of  assertion.  I  was  first  brought  to  doubt 
the  teachers  by  the  fact  that  in  the  very  passages 
they  all  denied  to  Shakespeare,  I  found  indubit- 
able proof  of  his  work.  Time  and  a  long  expe- 
rience of  mandarin-methods  have  only  strength- 
ened and  extended  this  belief. 

The  more  I  read  Timon  the  more  convinced  I 
am  that  It  is  all  Shakespeare's,  and  Shakespeare's 
alone,  from  beginning  to  end. 

My  readers,  I  think,  will  trust  me  now  without 
proof;  but  as  I  go  through  the  play  selecting  the 
most  characteristic  passages,  I  must  just  notice 
the  fact  that  the  very  finest  work  is  ascribed  to 
the  "  unknown  writer  "  by  all  the  commentators. 
The  curious  thing  Is  that  the  critics  are  unani- 
mous in  rejecting,  not  Shakespeare's  vulgarities 
and  inanities,  but  the  gems  of  his  thought,  the 
rays  of  purest  insight  In  him.  Timon  Is  all  his, 
I  say  again  deliberately.  The  weakest  work  In 
the  play,  the  word  disputes  with  Apemantus  and 
others,  are  in  his  manner;  the  undramatic  mo- 
notony of  It  Is  due  to  his  exceeding  bitterness  of 
soul.      For  instance,   Timon's   gentlemen   go   to 

187 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

borrow  for  their  lord:  when  they're  refused,  in- 
stead of  smiling  at  their  own  wisdom  in  finding 
expectancy  fulfilled,  they  curse  the  ungrateful 
friends  in  Timon's  own  vein.  Life  has  so  bruised 
Shakespeare  that  he  is  one  ache;  his  very  soul  is 
sore.  Love  and  friendship,  which  he  held  most 
sacred,  have  betrayed  him;  his  friend  has  proved 
a  vulgar  cad,  his  love  a  wanton.  The  gold  which 
he  has  always  tried  to  despise,  he  now  sees  is  the 
master-key  of  every  lock  in  the  world: 

This  yellow  slave* 
Will  knit  and  break  religions;  bless  the  accursed^ 
Make  the  hoar  leprosy  adored;  place  thieves 
And  give  them  title,  knee  and  approbation 
With  senators  on  the  bench:  this  is  it 
That  makes  the  wapper'd  widow  wed  again; 
She,  whom  the  spital-house  and  ulcerous  sores 
Would  cast  the  gorge  at,  this  embalms  and  spices 
To  the  April  day  again.  .  .  . 

The  disillusion  bred  new  wisdom  in  Shakespeare. 
Instead  of  patriotism  he  has  condemnation  now 
for  all  countries;  Alcibiades  generalizes  the 
thought : 

'Tis  honour  with  most  lands  to  be  at  odds. 

*  It  is  almost  incredible,  but  this  passage  has  been  se- 
lected by  Professor  Herford  as  a  specimen  of  the  "  unknown  " 
collaborator's  "  facile  rhetoric  "  and  is  contrasted  with  Shake- 
speare's "  close-packed  pregnant  verses."  (  !) 

188 


Lear  and  Timon:  Erotic  Mania 

Careless  of  character,  Shakespeare  lends  his 
deepest  ray  of  insight  to  a  secondary  person,  the 
first  Senator: 

He's  truly  valiant  that  can  wisely  suffer 
The  worst  that  man  can  breathe  ^  and  make  his  wrongs 
His  outsides^  to  wear  them  like  his  raiment  carelessly 
And  ne'er  prefer  his  injuries  to  his  heart. 
To  bring  it  into  danger. 

But,  like  all  the  rest  of  us,  Shakespeare's  insight 
went  further  than  his  practice;  he  saw  plainly 
that  injuries  should  be  taken  lightly,  but  he  could 
not  help  preferring  them  to  his  heart's  health: 
Timon  is  one  long  moan  of  agony. 

The  nature  of  Timon-Shakespeare's  suffering 
cannot  be  mistaken:  it  is  his  men  friends  who  be- 
tray Timon,  but  it  is  the  women  Timon  chiefly 
rails  against,  the  women  who  in  the  play  have 

*  This  is  another  passage  denied  to  Shakespeare  by  all  the 
commentators.  It  is  one  of  the  furthest  throws  of  his 
thought;  the  pearl  which  he   found  in  the   depths,  when  the 

I  bitter  waters  of  disillusion  had  quite  gone  over  him.  It  opens 
a  new  chapter  in  modern  morality.  "  Forgive  your  enemies," 
said   paganism,   because   fighting   with   them   will   waste   your 

J  time  and  energy.  "Forget  your  injuries,"  says  Shakespeare. 
On  no  account  nurse  them.  Brooding  over  wrongs  hardens 
the  heart  and  degrades  the  nature.  Take  your  buffets  lightly; 
wear  your  wrongs  as  you  do  your  garments — carelessly,   for 

;  your  own  sake.  Shakespeare's  commentators  have  not  under- 
stood this,  simply  because  they  do  net  know  him,  are  not  on  his 
level,  and  no  man  can  see  over  his  own  head. 

189 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

done  him  no  wrong.  It  Is  outside  the  scope  of 
the  play  to  curse  them;  the  only  explanation  is 
that  it  was  a  woman  who  in  life  wounded  Shake- 
speare most  deeply.  Just  as  Goneril  and  Regan 
are  painted  as  hard,  cruel,  lustful  prostitutes,  so 
Phrynia  and  Timandra  are  here  caricatured  as 
the  refuse  of  humanity,  without  any  desire  except 
for  gold. 

The  erotic  mania  of  Lear  shrills  in  Timon  to 
a  scream: 

.  .   .  strike  me  the  counterfeit  matron, — 
It  is  her  habit  only  that  is  honest. 
Herself 's  a  bawd:  let  not  the  virgin's  cheek 
Make  soft  thy  trenchant  sword.  .  .  . 

And  again : 

Consumptions  sow 

In  hollow  bones  of  man;  strike  their  sharp  shins, 

And  mar  men's  spurring.     Crack  the  lawyer's  voice. 

That  he  may  never  more  false  title  plead. 

Nor  sound  his  quillets  shrilly:  hoar  the  flamen. 

That  scolds  against  the  quality  of  flesh. 

And  not  believes  himself:  down  with  the  nose, 

Down  with  it  flat;  take  the  bridge  quite  away 

Of  him  that,  his  particular  to  foresee. 

Smells  from  the  general  weal:  make  curl'd-pate  ruffians 

bald; 
And  let  the  unscarr'd  braggarts  of  the  war 
Derive  some  pain  from  you:  plague  all; 
That  your  activity  may  defeat  and  quell 
The  source  of  all  erection.  ... 

190 


Lear  and  Timon:  Erotic  Mania 

His  madness  knows  no  distinction:  "  the  damned 
earth  "  even  is  the 

.  .  .  common  whore  of  mankind,*  that  put'st  odds 
Among  the  rout  of  nations  .  .  . 

But  even  in  Timon  Shakespeare  shows  himself 
impressionable-quick  and  most  generous.  As 
soon  as  Timon  finds  his  steward  honest,  he  throws 
off  his  misanthropy  and  cries : 

Forgive  my  general  and  exceptless  rashness 
You  perpetual-sober  gods !     I  do  proclaim 
One  honest  man.   .  .  . 

This  sharp  return  on  himself  with  its  superb  ex- 
pression is  denied  to  Shakespeare  by  all  commen- 
tators; yet  there  is  nothing  in  all  his  works  more 
characteristic. 

These  critics  all  suffer  from  Germanic  stodgi- 
ness.  One  instance  may  stand  for  a  thousand. 
Shakespeare  found  two  epitaphs  attributed  to 
Timon :  one  in  which  Timon  declares  he  will  be 
nameless,  the  other  gives  his  name:  both  are 
characteristic: 

Here  lies  a  wretched  corse,  of  wretched  soul  bereft: 
Seek  not  my  name:  a  plague  consume  you  wicked  caitiffs 
left! 

*  This  passage,  too,  is  attributed  to  the  "  unknown  writer " 
by  the  cry  of  critics. 

191 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

Here  lie  I,  Timon;  who,  alive,  all  living  men  did  hate: 
Pass  by  and  curse  thy  fill,  but  pass  and  stay  not  here 
thy  gait. 

Shakespeare  put  both  these  epitaphs  in,  one  after 
the  other:  he  does  not  seem  to  have  minded  the 
contradiction  in  them :  he  probably  saw  it  and  in- 
tended to  correct  It,  and  then  forgot  all  about  it ; 
but  the  commentators  have  buzzed  about  it  ever 
since,  and  from  this  high  and  rank  morsel  have 
dragged  infected  feet  over  the  whole  play:  "  Two 
hands,"  they  cry,  "  two  hands  plainly  at  work." 
Two  hands  If  you  will,  gentlemen,  but  both  mani- 
festly Shakespeare's. 

All  through  these  five  tragedies,  except  per- 
haps in  Othello,  we  have  been  moving  on  the  out- 
skirts, so  to  speak,  of  the  tornado  of  Shake- 
speare's passion.  Now  we  come  to  the  storm- 
centre.  Shakespeare  has  been  deceived  again 
and  again  by  the  woman  he  loved:  what  picture 
does  he  paint  of  her?  It  is  the  question  of  ques- 
tions for  him  and  for  us.  By  his  answer  we  shall 
be  able  to  measure  his  very  soul.  Tortured, 
cheated,  betrayed,  his  vanity  wounded  to  the 
quick,  his  affection  scorned,  the  best  In  him  de- 
spised;— If  he  can  still  keep  his  soul  intact  and 
render  righteous  judgment — paint  her  as  she  was, 
the  good  as  well  as  the  evil — then  in  him,  on  this 

192 


Lear  and  Timon:  Erotic  Mania 

artist-side  at  least,  and  there  it  no  higher,  we 
touch  the  zenith  of  humanity. 

He  was  able  to  reach  this  height  about  the 
false  friend,  Lord  Herbert,  who  had  stolen  his 
love  from  him.  Shakespeare  pictures  Herbert- 
Bertram  for  us  very  fairly;  he  shows  us  first  Ber- 
tram's impatient  eagerness  to  leave  the  court:  the 
boy-fighter  will  not  be  a  squire  of  dames,  "  the 
forehorse  to  a  smock,"  as  he  himself  puts  it; 
he  will  risk  the  King's  displeasure  and  go  to  the 
wars.  And  when  in  the  field,  he  wins  golden 
opinions  on  all  sides:  Diana  even,  who  rejects 
his  suit,  tells  us  that  "  they  say  the  French  Count 
has  done  most  honourable  service,"  and  the 
widow  replies  that  he  has  "  taken  their  greatest 
commander  and  with  his  own  hand  he  slew  the 
Duke's  brother."  Bertram,  though  young,  is  a 
born  soldier  of  proved  courage,  as  the  English 
aristocrat  often  is. 

True,  Shakespeare  puts  in  the  shadows,  pur- 
ple-black shadows  to  balance  these  high  lights: 
Bertram  has  a  low  opinion  of  women,  is  inexpres- 
sibly coarse  and  common,  but  we  feel  that  the 
portrait  of  him  is  a  fair  one,  astonishingly  true 
to  life  in  its  mingled  good  and  evil. 

Was  Shakespeare  as  fair  to  Mary  Fitton? 
Bertram-Herbert,   we  know,   betrayed  him   *'  in 

193 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

the  wanton  way  of  youth."  But  why  was  Mary 
Fitton  faithless?  From  what  we  know  of  Shake- 
speare we  should  be  Inclined  to  guess  that  he 
would  ascribe  Mary  FItton's  preference  of  others 
to  snobbishness.  He  will  lay  the  flattering  unc- 
tion to  his  soul,  we  imagine,  that  she  preferred 
Herbert  because  he  was  a  lord  of  great  place. 
But  no !  this  is  not  even  hinted.  Manifestly 
Mary  Fitton  was  well  born  enough,  confident 
enough  In  herself  and  her  superb  womanhood,  to 
judge  all  men,  peers,  and  players  alike,  on  the 
human  level.  She  must  have  been  a  great  crea- 
ture; for  not  to  be  a  snob  In  England  Is  a  rarer 
distinction  than  any  title.  The  next  disability 
that  would  occur  to  Shakespeare  would  naturally 
be  his  age.  Mary  Fitton  Is  young,  he  might  say, 
and  therefore  prefers  young  courtiers  to  old 
mummers.  But  his  Othello  expressly  asks  him- 
self this  question  and  answers  It: 

...  or  for  I  am  declined 
Into  the  vale  of  years — yet  that's  not  much. 

And  In  fact  It  was  "  not  much  " ;  for  when  Shake- 
speare first  met  Mistress  Fitton,  though  she  was 
only  seventeen  or  eighteen,  he  was  only  thirty- 
three.  It  Is  true  that  when  Othello  was  written 
the  discrepancy  showed  worse:  she  was  twenty- 

194 


Lear  and  Timoji:  Erotic  Mania 

four  and  he  was  nearly  forty;  still  "that's  not 
much  "  we  are  uicllned  to  echo;  though  this  harp- 
ing on  his  age,  indicates  probably  a  certain  phys- 
ical weakness. 

Why,  then,  did  the  maid  of  honour  prefer  this 
lord  and  that  knight  to  Shakespeare,  who  adored 
her?  Was  the  fault  all  Mary  Fitton's?  Was  it 
all  due  to  her  sensuality?  Shakespeare  says  so 
and  the  evidence  against  her  at  first  blush  seems 
overwhelming.  At  the  very  first  sight  of  her  as 
Rosaline  in  Romeo  and  JuUet  he  credits  her  with 
Dian's  wit  and  cold  chastity;  but  even  this  Rosa- 
line, he  notices,  is  not  altogether  obdurate  and  im- 
mediately afterwards,  as  Rosaline  again  in  Love's 
Labour's  Lost,  he  declares  her  to  be  a  wanton: 

Ay,  and  by  heaven,  one  that  will  do  the  deed 
Though  Argus  were  her  eunuch  and  her  guard. 

Again  and  again  through  Biron,  Bertram,  and 
others,  he  attributes  to  her  this  cunning  outside 
of  cold  pride,  gilding  mere  wantonness.  The 
combination  is  so  uncommon  that  it  might  alone 
serve  to  identify  his  mistress  as  readily  as  her 
white  complexion  and  pitch-black  eyes.  But  al- 
lowing Mary  Fitton  to  have  been  as  sensual  as  a 
monkey,  she  must  still  have  had  some  prefer- 
ences: does  Shakespeare  mark  any?     How  does 

195 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

Ke  explain  to  himself  his  own  conquest  of  her? 
Just  before  he  met  her  he  was  always  boasting, 
as  we  saw : 

That  man  that  hath  a  tongue,  I  say,  is  no  man. 
If  with  his  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman. 

Was  it  his  honeyed  flatteries  seduced  her  or 
his  handsome  person  or  his  devotion?  Did  she 
know  that  she  was  beloved  by  the  greatest  man 
in  the  world?  Did  she  divine  on  his  forehead 
the  crown  of  crowns?  Or  was  she  too  far  below 
him  to  have  any  inkling  of  the  truth,  as  Fanny 
Brawne  was  too  far  below  Keats?  Above  all, 
why,  loving  her,  did  Shakespeare  fail  to  hold  her? 
We  must  now  see  if  any  or  all  of  these  riddles 
may  be  answered. 

Whatever  the  answer  may  be,  it  must  be  looked 
for  in  his  last  portraits  of  his  wonderful  gipsy; 
in  Troilus  and  Cressida  and  in  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra. Before  considering  these  plays  let  us 
first  glance  back  over  the  way  we  have  come. 


196 


CHAPTER   X 

TROILUS   AND   CRESSIDA  :     FALSE   CRESSID '' THE 

heart's  blood  of  beauty;"  love's 

INVISIBLE  soul 

Tl  rE  have  traced  Shakespeare's  love  from  Its 
^  ^  dawning  in  Rosaline  and  Juliet,  through 
realistic  portraits  like  that  of  Rosaline  in  Lovers 
Lahour^s  Lost,  and  idealistic  sketches  such  as 
Julia,  Portia,  Beatrice,  and  Rosalind  to  its  noon- 
tide in  his  passion  for  the  "  dark  lady  "  of  the 
sonnets. 

Here  at  length  he  finally  loses  faith  in  his 
gypsy  mistress  and  his  love  purged  of  trust  and 
affection  hardens  to  lust  and  shows  itself  in  jeal- 
ous rage  in  Hamlet  and  Othello.  In  Lear  the 
jealousy  has  bred  despair,  and  the  despair  shrills 
to  madness  and  the  more  awful  dread  of  mad- 
ness: In  Timon  the  ravings  die  gradually  away  in 
moans  and  cursings  to  the  inevitable  end. 

Each  of  these  tragedies  marks  a  stage  In  Shake- 
speare's agony:  we  can  trace  his  descent  to  the 
ultimate  of  human  suffering  by  the  stains  of  his 

197 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

bleeding  feet  on  the  flints  and  thorns  of  the 
rough  way.  After  Timon  there  is  no  more  to  be 
said.  But  the  rhythm  of  life  is  never  so  symmet- 
rical-perfect as  the  rhythm  of  art.  When  Shake- 
speare wrote  Lear  and  Timon,  he  tasted  the  very 
bitterness  of  despair  and  death:  his  dark  mis- 
tress had  probably  drawn  away  from  him  com- 
pletely in  some  new  Infatuation;  but  a  little  later, 
when  he  wrote  Troilus  and  Cressida  and  Antony 
and  Cleopatra,  the  sky  had  grown  lighter  again 
and  the  sun  shone  through  the  clouds.  Antony 
and  Cleopatra  is  evidence  sufficient  that  his  mis- 
tress had  been  kind  to  him;  It  is  the  St.  Martin's 
summer,  so  to  speak,  of  his  passion:  the  warmth 
and  sunshine  and  ecstasy  of  joy  are  In  It. 

This  Irregular  rhythm  of  life  Is  more  pathetic 
than  the  inevitable  parabola  of  art.  If  Shake- 
speare had  gone  steadily  down  to  despair  from 
the  sonnets,  through  Hamlet,  Othello,  Macbeth 
to  Lear  and  Timon,  we  should  not  have  been  so 
moved  as  by  the  exquisitely  sharp  renascence  to 
life  and  love  In  Troilus  and  Cressida  which  Is  fol- 
lowed by  the  exultant  passion  of  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  where  the  flowers  bloom  again  in  the 
sunny  warmth,  and  the  love-birds  sing  before  the 
final  desolation. 

These  two  plays  contain  Shakespeare's  fin- 
198 


Troilus  and  Cressida:  False  Cress  id 

est  portraits  of  his  great  mistress.  Troilus  and 
Cressida  was  probably  revised  as  late  as  1605-6: 
I  have  given  my  reasons  elsewhere  for  thinking 
the  revision  an  earlier  work  than  Antony  and 
Cleopatra.  With  the  exception  of  Timon, 
Troilus  and  Cressida  is  the  harshest  play  Shake- 
speare ever  wrote :  it  is  steeped  in  contempt  for 
poor  humanity.  I  have  found  in  the  poet's  life 
the  explanation  of  this  intensified  misery.  Not 
only  is  he  suffering  almost  past  hope  from  the  un- 
faith  of  his  gypsy-wanton,  but  he  has  been  plagued 
by  the  rivalry  of  the  poet  Chapman,  whom  he 
describes  with  exquisite  insight  in  the  sonnets  as 
something  of  a  pedant.  Chapman  translated 
Homer  and  glorified  the  Greeks:  Shakespeare 
therefore  jeers  at  the  "  war  for  a  placket  "... 
"  all  the  argument,"  he  tells  us,  "  is  a  cuckold  and 
a  whore  " ;  he  makes  Achilles  a  cowardly  ruffian 
and  "  the  king  of  men  "  a  mouthing  imbecile;  he 
will  not  even  leave  us  the  ideal  picture  of  Hector 
and  Andromache:  Hector  challenges  Ajax  and 
then  withdraws  from  the  fight  out  of  regard  for 
the  blood  of  his  "  sacred  aunt  "  which  flows  in 
Ajax's  veins. 

As  I  have  said  elsewhere,  no  one  was  ever 
better  fitted  to  appreciate  the  grace  of  Greece  and 
the  magic  of  Greek  plastic  art  than  Shakespeare; 

199 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

had  he  possessed  Jonson's  knowledge  of  the  lan- 
guage, he  would  have  left  us  divine  pictures  of 
Greek  life.  But  Chapman  had  made  up  to  Her- 
bert, and  his  pedantry  and  overpraised  Homer 
had  got  upon  Shakespeare's  nerves,  who  now 
spewed  out  his  contempt  of  his  rival's  classical 
learning  in  Timon  and  in  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

It  may  be  possible  to  get  nearer  to  Shake- 
speare's life  than  this  while  showing  how  his  per- 
sonal experiences  affected  even  his  mature  art. 
We  know  a  good  deal  about  the  bitter  quarrel 
between  Ben  Jonson  on  the  one  side  and  Dekker 
and  Marston  on  the  other;  It  seems  probable  that 
Shakespeare  when  creating  Ajax  made  the  char- 
acter life-like  and  recognizable  by  lending  the 
stout  Grecian  some  of  Ben  Jonson's  peculiarities; 
and  perhaps  "  rank "  Thersltes  shows  Shake- 
speare's judgment  of  Dekker. 

Here  Is  the  portrait  of  Ajax  put  In  the  mouth 
of  Alexander: 

"  This  man,  lady,  hath  robbed  many  beasts  of 
their  particular  additions;  he  Is  as  valiant  as  the 
lion,  churlish  as  the  bear,  slow  as  the  elephant: 
a  man  Into  whom  nature  hath  so  crowded  hu- 
mours that  his  valour  Is  crushed  into  folly,  his 
folly  sauced  with  discretion :  there  Is  no  man  hath 
a  virtue  that  he  hath  not  a  glimpse  of,  nor  any 

200 


Troilus  and  Cress ida:  False  Cressid 

man  an  attaint  but  he  carries  some  strain  of  it; 
he  is  melancholy  without  cause,  and  merry  against 
the  hair:  he  hath  the  joints  of  everything,  but 
everything  so  out  of  joint  that  he  is  gouty  Bria- 
reus,  many  hands  and  no  use;  or  purblind  Argus, 
all  eyes  and  no  sight.   .   .  ." 

This  is  too  precise  portraiture  for  an  histori- 
cal figure;  it  is  evident  that  Shakespeare  had  some 
contemporary  in  mind  when  he  thus  individual- 
ized Ajax.  I  cannot  but  think  he  was  glancing 
at  Ben  Jonson,  his  constant  and  not  always  fair 
critic,  In  this  astonishingly  realistic  description. 
That  "  gouty  Briareus  "  is  poisonously  clever  and 
the  "  purblind  Argus,  all  eyes  and  no  sight  '*  flicks 
the  raw  spot  with  consummate  skill.  It  looks  to 
me  as  if  Shakespeare  were  paying  off  old  scores 
in  thus  ridiculing  his  critics;  his  caricature  of 
Jonson  is  on  the  whole  good-humoured  and  ex- 
tremely effective,  whereas  his  opinion  of  Dekker, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  his  partisan.  Is  sharpened 
by  contemptuous  aversion.  Nothing  gives  a  better 
idea  of  Shakespeare's  extraordinary  insight  than 
these  disdainful  glances  at  his  contemporaries. 
They  had  not  made  life  very  pleasant  to  him,  as 
we  know;  he  retorts  by  shelving  the  clumsiness 
and  ineptitude  which  disfigured  Jonson's  strength 
and  the  foulness  which  prevented  the  gutter-mind 

201 


The  Womeji  oj  Shakespeare 

of  Dekker  from  rendering  a  fair  reflection  of 
earth  and  sky.  But  even  here  while  giving  play 
to  keen  eyes,  he  judges  with  Imperial  fairness: 
his  friends  fare  worse  at  his  hands  than  his 
opponents. 

The  main  current  of  the  poet's  bitterness  in 
TroUus  and  Cressida  as  In  all  his  other  tragedies 
flows  from  his  disappointed  and  defiled  love.  At 
length  he  has  found  his  opportunity:  ten  years 
have  passed  since  he  first  sketched  his  proud  witty 
wanton  mistress  for  us  as  Rosaline  in  Lovers 
Lahour^s  Lost;  now  he  will  give  us  another  real- 
istic portrait  of  her;  but  this  time  he  will  not 
merely  tell  us  she's  ''  a  light  girl  "  with  black 
eyes,  he'll  show  her  in  act;  she  shall  live  for  us 
and  play  the  old  game  before  our  eyes.  By  this 
time  Shakespeare  had  come  to  realize,  I  Imagine, 
that  his  passion  was  extraordinary  and  note- 
worthyand  of  purpose  and  with  self-conscious  art 
he  set  to  work  to  paint  It. 

The  physical  traits  which  identify  Cressida 
with  Rosaline  and  the  *'  dark  lady  "  of  the  son- 
nets are  at  first  slight;  mere  indications  in  fact; 
and  only  to  be  thus  construed  because  they  are 
/  wholly  unnecessary  In  the  play. 

The  tragedy  opens  with  the  dialogue  between 
Troilus   and   Cresslda's   uncle   Pandar.     Troilus 

202 


Troilus  and  Cress  id  a:  False  Cress  i  J 

begins  by  talking  In  Shakespeare's  very  strain  of 
the  "  cruel  war*  here  within"  himself:  he  goes 
on: 

...  I  am  weaker  than  a  woman's  tear. 
Tamer  than  sleep,  fonder  than  ignorance.  .  .  . 

In  just  the  same  strain  Hamlet  lamented  his 
tameness;  he  lacked  "gall  to  make  oppression 
bitter";  but  this  "fonder  than  ignorance"  is 
Shakespeare's  later  confession. 

Pandar  praises  Cressida's  beauty:  "An  her 
hair  were  not  somewhat  darker  than  Helen's — 
well,  go  to — there  were  no  more  comparison  be- 
tween the  women  ...  I  would  not  .  .  .  praise 
her  .  .  .  but  I  would  somebody  had  heard  her 
talk  yesterday,  as  I  did.  I  will  not  dispraise 
your  sister  Cassandra's  wit,  but  .  .  ." 

A  little  later  he  babbles  again: 

I  care  not  an  she  were  a  black-a-moor ;  'tis  all  one  to  me. 

The  identity  is  unmistakable;  Cressida  is  a/ 
dark  beauty  with  astonishing  wit;  every  touch  i^ 
of  Shakespeare's  cunning  mistress  Rosallne-FIt- 
ton:  Troilus  cries  like  Romeo: 

She  is  stubborn-chaste  against  all  suit. 

*  In   Julius   Ca'sar,    Bnitus,    another    incarnation   of   vShake- 
speare,  talked  of  being  "with  himself  at  war." 

203 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

Then  Crcssida  is  introduced  to  talk  about  Troi- 
lus :  while  Pandar  praises  him  she  runs  him  down, 
till  Pandar  gets  annoyed: 

One  knows  not  at  what  ward  you  lie. 

At  once  this  stubborn-chaste  Cressida  replies: 
"Upon  my  back  to  defend  my  belly;  upon  my 
wit  to  defend  my  wiles;  upon  my  secrecy  to  de- 
fend mine  honesty  "  and  so  on,  more  and  more 
lewdly.  When  Pandar  is  going  away  she  calls 
him  "  a  bawd,"  and  this  is  how  this  virgin  talks 
to  herself: 

But  more  in  Troilus  thousand-fold  I  see 
Than  in  the  glass  of  Pandar's  praise  may  be; 
Yet  hold  I  off.     Women  are  angels,  wooing: 
Things  won  are  done;  joy's  soul  lies  in  the  doing. 
That  she  beloved  knows  nought  that  knows  not  this : 
Men  prize  the  thing  ungain'd  more  than  it  is: 
That  she  was  never  yet  that  ever  knew 
Love  got  so  sweet  as  when  desire  did  sue.  .  .  . 

This  Is  manifestly  the  same  woman  whom  Ber- 
tram described  to  us  in  AWs  Well  with  her  pre- 
tended "  restraint,"  "  infinite  cunning,"  and  self- 
abandonment,  and  whom  Antony  is  about  to  de- 
scribe as  "  cunning  past  men's  thought  " :  this  Is 
the  "  whitely  wanton,"  Rosaline,  who  loved  to 
fence  with  words — the  lewder  the  better.  No 
virgin  ever  had  this  science  of  Cressida. 

204 


Troilus  and  Cress  id  a:  False  Cressid 

We  do  not  see  Cressida  again  till  Pandar  In 
the  third  act  brings  her  to  Troilus  in  the  orchard: 
Shakespeare  has  painted  the  love-scene  for  us 
more  lusciously  than  love-scene  was  ever  painted 
before  or  since. 

What  a  fascination  his  mistress  must  have  had 
for  him  to  enable  him  after  years  of  Intimacy  to 
realize  this  recrudescence  of  passion  with  such 
throbbing  Intensity!  His  mouthpiece,  Troilus, 
cries : 

I  am  giddy;  expectation  whirls  me  round. 

The  imaginary  relish  is  so  sweet 

That  it  enchants  my  sense:  what  will  it  be. 

When  that  the  watery  palate  tastes  indeed 

Love's  thrice  repured  nectar?  death,  I  fear  me, 

Swouvding  destruction,  or  some  joy  too  fine. 

Too  subtle-potent,  tuned  too  sharp  in  sweetness 

For  the  capacity  of  my  ruder  powers: 

I  fear  it  much;*  and  I  do  fear  besides, 

That  I  shall  lose  distinction  in  my  joys; 

As  doth  a  battle,  when  they  charge  on  heaps 

The  enemy  flying. 

*  The  italics  are  mine.  This  is  the  supremest  utterance  of 
passion  in  all  Shakespeare,  This  fear  that  the  intensity  of  the 
emotion  will  lame  the  "  ruder  powers  "  of  the  body  can  only 
be  felt  in  a  man's  love  for  a  woman.  In  her  love  for  Bassanio 
Portia  fears  the  "too  much"  of  the  emotion,  but  naturally 
without  any  reference  to  the  body.  In  Sonnet  23,  which  I 
have  already  described  as  the  only  cry  of  passion  addressed 
to  the  youth  in  any  writing  of  Shakespeare,  we  are  confronted 
with  the  same  overpowering  desire  and  the  same  dread:  now 
what  should  we  infer  from  this?    Only  one  deduction,  it  seems 

205 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

Pandar,  too,  describes  Cressida  In  much  the 
same  way: 

She's  making  her  recady,  she'll  come  straight: 

.  .  .  She   does   so   blush.  ...  It   is   the   prettiest 

villain:  she  fetches  her  breath  as  short  as  a 

new  ta'en  sparrow. 
Tro.  Even  such  a  passion  doth  embrace  my  bosom: 

My  heart  beats  thicker  than  a  feverous  pulse.  .  .  . 

The  lovers'  talk  at  first  is  nothing  wonderful 
— ^all  hesitation  on  her  part  and  admiration  on 
his.  But  Cressida  Is  the  first  to  end  the  fencing. 
I  must  transcribe  a  page.  Shakespeare  has  writ- 
ten nothing  finer,  nothing  truer: 

Cres.  Boldness  comes  to  me  now^  and  brings  me  heart. 
Prince  Troilus^  I  have  loved  you  night  and  day 
For  many  weary  months. 
Tro.    Why  was  my  Cressid  then  so  hard  to  win.-* 
Cres.  Hard  to  seem  won:  but  I  was  won^  my  lord. 
With  the  first  glance  that  ever — pardon  me — 
If  I  confess  much^,  you  will  play  the  tyrant. 
I  love  you  now;  but  not  till  now^  so  much 
But  I  might  master  it:  in  faith  I  lie; 

to  me,  is  possible.  This  nervous  fear  lest  the  verj  force  of 
desire  should  mar  the  performance  is  manifestly  borrowed 
from  Shakespeare's  desire  for  his  mistress;  it  is  utterly  af- 
fected and  insincere  when  addressed  to  the  youth.  Just  in  the 
same  way  Shakespeare  pictures  Venus  begging  Adonis  again 
and  again  not  to  let  his  beauty  die  without  leaving  children  to 
inherit  it,  and  then  addresses  the  same  prayer  to  his  man- 
friend  in  the  first  eighteen  sonnets,  where  from  a  man  to  a 
man  the  prayer  is  wholly  out  of  place  and  insincere. 

206 


Troilus  and  Cressida:  False  Cressid 

My  thoughts  were  like  unbridled  children,  grown 
Too  headstrong  for  their  mother.     See  we  fools! 
Why  have  I  blabb'd?  who  shall  be  true  to  us. 
When  we  are  so  unsecret  to  ourselves? 
But,  though  I  loved  you  well,  I  woo'd  you  not: 
And  yet,  good  faith,  I  wish'd  myself  a  man. 
Or  that  we  women  had  men's  privilege 
Of  speaking  first.  .  .  . 

Then  she  will  go  away: 

...  I  know  not  what  I  speak. 
Tro.    Well  know  they  what  they  speak  that  speak  so 

wisely. 
Cres.  Perchance  my  lord,  I  show  more  craft*  than  love: 
And  fell  so  roundly  to  a  large  confession. 
To  angle  for  your  thoughts:  but  you  are  wise, 
Or  else  you  love  not,  for  to  be  wise  and  love 
Exceeds    man's    might;    that    dwells    with    gods 
above.  .  .  . 

The  last  two  lines  are  plainly  Shakespeare's 
own  reflection.  Troilus  answers  Cressida  in  a 
way  which  shows  the  disillusion  of  all  Shake- 
speare's desperate  hopes;  for  why  should  young 
Troilus  not  believe  his  love?  The  whole  passage 
is  an  intimate  confession,  and  in  the  last  two  lines 
Shakespeare  again  laments  that  his  simple  con- 

*  This  reminds  me  of  Juliet's  declaration,  and  serves  to  show 
[  how  far  Shakespeare  has  travelled  in  knowledge  of  his  mis- 
j       tress  in  the  ten  or  twelve  years: 

But  trust  me,  gentlemen,  I'll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 
207 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

stancy  is  at  a  disadvantage    with    his    mistress's 
opalescent  changes  of  fancy: 

0  that  I  thought  it  could  be  in  a  woman — 
As,  if  it  can,  I  will  presume  in  you — 

To  feed  for  aye  her  lamp  and  flames  of  love; 
To  keep  her  constancy  in  plight  and  youth. 
Outliving  beauty's  outward,  with  a  mind 
That  doth  renew  swifter  than  blood  decays ! 
Or  that  persuasion  could  but  thus  convince  me. 
That  my  integrity  and  truth  to  you 
Might  be  affronted  with  the  match  and  weight 
Of  such  a  winnow'd  purity  in  love; 
How  were  I  then  uplifted!  but,  alas! 

1  am  as  true  as  truth's  simplicity 

And  simpler  than  the  infancy  of  truth.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning  Cressida  is  as  charming- 
frank  as  Juliet:  '^  .  Night  hath  been  too  brief," 
she  says,  and  Troilus,  like  Romeo,  wishes  that 
"  the  busy  day  had  not  been  wakened  by  the  lark." 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  when  Cressida  is 
told  that  she  will  have  to  leave  Troilus  she  swears 
that  she  will  "  not  go  from  Troy  " ;  she  will  not 
even  hear  of  moderation  in  her  grief. 

The  grief  is  fine,  full,  perfect,  that  I  taste. 

And  violenteth  in  a  sense  as  strong 

As  that  which  causeth  it:  how  can  I  moderate  it? 

She  will  be  a  "  woful  Cressid  'mongst  the 
merry  Greeks."  And  then  this  Troilus  though 
only  a  youth  speaks  again  with  the  insight  of  dis- 

208 


Trotlus  and  Cressida:  False  Cressid 

illusloned  Shakespeare:  he  doubts  Crcssida's 
truth  and  his  own  merit.  The  whole  passage  de- 
serves to  be  weighed  word  by  word  though  space 
forbids  me  to  transcribe  more  than  a  part  of  it: 
he  says  to  his  mistress : 

...  I  do  not  call  your  faith  in  question 
So  mainly  as  my  merit:  I  cannot  sing, 
Nor  heel  the  high  lavolt,  nor  sweeten  talk 
Nor  play  at  subtle  games;  fair  virtues  all. 
To  which  the  Grecians  are  most  prompt  and  preg- 
nant: 
But  I  can  tell  that  in  each  grace  of  these 
There  lurks  a  still  and  dumb-discoursive  devil 
That  tempts  most  cunningly:  but  be  not  tempted. 

Cres.  Do  you  think  I  will? 

Tro.  No. 

But  something  may  he  done  that  we  will  not. 

I  have  put  this  last  line  in  italics  and  shall  return 
to  It  again. 

Then  we  have  the  terrible  scene  in  the  fifth  act 
in  which  Cressida  angles  for  Diomedes,  just  as 
she  aforetime  angled  for  Troilus.  Ulysses  and 
Troilus  witness  the  whole  scene.  She  begins  with 
a  beseeching  which  in  itself  is  a  confession: 

Sweet  honey  Greek,  tempt  me  no  more  to  folly. 

She  then  pretends  coyness,  and  Diomedes  bids 
her  good  night,    "  I'll  be  your  fool  no  more." 
Troilus-Shakespeare's  comment  is  astonishing: 
Thy  better  must. 
209 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

Then  she  strokes  Diomedes'  cheek  and  he  asks  a 
token  from  her  for  surety.  She  gives  him  the 
very  sleeve  which  Troilus  had  given  her.  When 
they  say  "  good  night  "  she  reminds  Diomedes  of 
his  promise  with  "  I  prithee,  come,"  and  talks  to 
herself  in  this  way: 

Troilus^  farewell!  one  eye  yet  looks  on  thee; 
But  with  my  heart  the  other  eye  doth  see. 
Ah,  poor  our  sex!  this  fault  in  us  I  find. 
The  error  of  our  eye  directs  our  mind:  .  .  . 

The  first  two  lines  though  weak  are  important 
to  us:  the  two  last  of  course  are  Shakespeare's 
comment. 

After  this  it  is  no  wonder  that  Ulysses  wants  to 

go: 

Why  stay  we  then.^ 

Troilus-Shakespeare  answers : 

To  make  a  recordation  to  my  soul 

Of   every   syllable   that   here  was   spoke.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  famous  sonnet  in  which  Shakespeare 
warns  his  dark  mistress  not  to  be  faithless  before 
his  very  eyes,  for  that  may  push  him  to  madness 
and  revenge.  I  have  often  wondered  what  she 
said  or  did  to  Herbert  before  Shakespeare's  eyes 
to  have  wrung  that  wild  threat  from  her  gentle 
poet-lover.    And  when  I  read  this  scene  in  Troi- 

210 


Troilus  and  Cress  ida:  False  Cress  id 

Ills  and  Cressida  I  feel  that  Shakespeare  had 
either  seen  his  mistress  betray  him  or  listened  to 
her  while  she  was  giving  herself.  Those  words 
of  TroUus  ring  In  my  brain : 

To  make  a  recordation  to  my  soul 

Of   every    syllable   that   here   was    spoke. 

We  have  seen  long  ago  that  it  was  a  trick,  of 
Shakespeare  when  Intensely  moved  to  coin  a  new 
word  or  word-form;  his  exquisite  sensibility  al- 
ways Invented  a  new  symbol.  The  word  "  recor- 
dation "  Is  a  confession  to  me. 

There  Is  no  reason  given  for  Cresslda's  un- 
faithfulness. She  was  as  loose  as  a  wanton  boy; 
folly  tempted  her:  Greek  and  Trojan  alike  were 
honey  to  her  and  all  hours  of  day  and  night  ap- 
propriate. 

At  first  sight  of  her  Ulysses,  who  is  the  wisdom 
of  the  play,  condemns  her,  as  Shakespeare  got 
the  Abbess  in  The  Comedy  of  Errors  to  condemn 
his  jealous  wife  Adriana.  I  hear  Shakespeare's 
severe  ethical  judgment  of  his  mistress  in  every 

word: 

.  .  .  Fie,  fie  upon  her! 
There's  language  in  her  eye,  her  cheek,  her  lip. 
Nay  her  foot  speaks;  her  wanton  spirit  looks  out 
At  every  joint  and  motive  of  her  body. 
O,  these  encounterers,  so  glib  of  tongue. 
That  give  accosting  welcome  ere  it  comes, 
211 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

And  wide  unclasp  the  tables  of  their  thoughts 
To  every  ticklish  reader !  set  them  down 
For  sluttish  spoils  of  opportunity 
And  daughters  of  the  game.  .  .  . 

And  yet  though  her  falseness  Is  seen  so  clearly 
and  cursed  so  bitterly,  she  is  not  punished  in  any 
way. 

Before  I  leave  this  drama  I  must  go  back  one 
moment  to  the  warning  of  Troilus,  which  I 
marked  In  Italics.  Troilus  tells  Cresslda  "  some- 
thing may  be  done  that  we  will  not  " :  the  Gre- 
cians, he  says,  can  "  play  at  subtle  games."  Now 
what  are  these  "  subtle  games "  of  love  that 
"tempt  most  cunningly"?  We  noticed  just  the 
same  Insinuation  in  the  words  of  Parolles  about 
Bertram-Herbert  In  AlVs  Well.  In  Act  v.  3,  Pa- 
rolles says  that  he  knew  of  a  promise  of  marriage 
by  Bertram  and  things  which  would  derive  me 
ill-will  to  speak  of;  Herbert  then  had  done  even 
worse  than  promise  marriage.  Shakespeare 
wants  to  leave  us  with  the  impression  that  his 
mistress  was  so  given  to  the  pleasures  of  sense 
that  the  most  subtle  and  cunning  sensualist  among 
her  lovers  would  have  the  greatest  Influence  over 
her.  He  wishes  to  suggest  that  Mary  FItton 
preferred  Herbert  and  others  to  himself  because 
they  practised  "  subtle  "  games  of  love  which  he 

212 


Troilus  and  Cress  id  a:  False  Cress  id 

would  not  condescend  to  use.  The  accusation 
was  probably  true,  though  I  doubt  the  implied  su- 
periority. 

Shakespeare  then  allows  Cressida  to  assure  us 
that  she  has  always  one  eye  on  Troilus-Shake- 
speare,  even  when  the  other  is  on  Diomedes  or 
her  newest  fancy.  That  is  the  truth  I  imagine. 
Her  love  of  Shakespeare  is  the  single  redeeming 
trait  in  Cressida-Fitton;  otherwise  she  is  as  loose 
as  she  was  ten  years  before  in  1597  when  we  first 
met  her  as  Rosaline  in  Lovers  Labour's  Lost. 

There  is  no  picture  in  all  literature  of  so  de- 
lightful and  frank  a  wanton  as  Shakespeare's 
Cressida;  she  is  almost  too  soulless  "a  daugh- 
ter of  the  game  "  *  to  be  human — "  the  sluttish 
sport  of  opportunity."  But  there  must  have  been 
something  more  in  Shakespeare's  gypsy  mistress 
than  wiles  and  wantonness.  We  know  from  the 
sonnets  that  there  was  might  and  boldness  of  per- 
sonality in  her;  but  was  there  nothing  else?  We 
shall  soon  see. 

*  Shakespeare  really  made  this  English  language  of  ours 
just  as  Dante  made  Italian  and  Luther  German:  the  phrase 
of  the  prostitute  to-daj  on  the  streets  of  London  is:  "I'm  on 
the  game." 


91S 


CHAPTER    XI 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA:   CLEOPATRA-FITTON : 

"  WITCHERY   JOINS   WITH   BEAUTY,    LUST 

WITH  BOTH  !  " 


J  N  TONY  AND  CLEOPATRA  is 
-^^  Shakespeare's  masterpiece  of  passion;  in 
it  he  gives  us  the  greatest  woman-portrait  ever 
painted;  here  at  length  we  shall  see  his  wanton 
mistress  at  her  best  queening  it  imperially. 

The  whole  interest  of  this  long  play  is  concen- 
trated on  Antony  and  on  Cleopatra.  Antony  Is 
talked  of  by  the  professors  as  "  a  supreme  poeti- 
cal creation  ...  as  unique  as  Hamlet,"  and  we 
may  assume  before  proof  that  Shakespeare  will 
Identify  himself  with  the  lover,  Antony;  but  a  lit- 
tle doubt  of  the  perfectness  of  the  portraiture 
must  remain  In  us;  for  Antony  was  a  great  cap- 
tain and  fighter.  Even  In  Plutarch  his  qualities 
as  a  man  of  action  are  only  obscured  by  his  pas- 
sion for  Cleopatra;  she  *'  quenched  the  goodness 
.  .  .  and  the  hope  of  rising  In  him  .  .  .  and 
stirred  up  many  vices  ";  but  first  and  last  he  was 

214 


Cleopatra-F  itton 

a  great  soldier.  Gentle  sensitive  Shakespeare 
we  may  be  sure,  with  his  Hamlet-like  poetic  na- 
ture, will  depict  the  lover  for  us  to  the  life;  but 
how  will  he  render  the  captain? 

Plutarch  has  not  given  him  much  help :  he,  too, 
has  taken  the  leader  of  men  for  granted,  and 
Shakespeare  finds  no  magic  In  himself  to  better 
his  model.  In  this  drama  Antony  lives  for  us 
as  a  lover,  a  generous,  forgiving  poet-lover, 
but  nothing  more.  Antony  and  Cleopatra  Is 
even  more  of  a  lyric,  a  lust-lyric  it  Is  true,  than 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  The  character  of  Antony  is 
only  obscured  for  us  by  the  soldierly  achievements 
which  Shakespeare  following  Plutarch  attributes 
to  him.  "  The  triple  pillar  of  the  world  "  has 
no  kinship  for  Shakespeare,  no  attraction  even  till 
he  is  "  transform'd  into  a  strumpet's  fool." 
Hamlet-Shakespeare  is  here  in  a  role  only  par- 
tially suited  to  him  and  consequently  Antony  Is 
not  one  of  Shakespeare's  best  character  pictures. 

But  under  the  thin  armour,  so  to  speak,  of  the 
Roman  general,  Shakespeare  paints  himself  for 
us  to  the  life.  This  Antony-Shakespeare  can  be 
distinguished  easily  In  alm^ost  every  scene.  Now 
and  then  Indeed  certain  qualities  of  Shakespeare 
come  to  more  superb  and  perfect  expression  in 
Antony  than  in  any  other  of  the  dramatist's  he- 

215 


c^ 


T^ he  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

rocs,  for  Shakespeare's  skill  of  hand  increased  to 
the  end. 

I  have  called  Shakespeare  the  ideal  lover  with 
the  best  tongue  in  the  world.  Listen  to  him  in 
the  first  scene  of  the  first  act: 

Cleo.  If  it  be  love  indeed,  tell  me  how  much. 
Ant.    There's  beggary  in  the  love  that  can  be  reckon'd. 
Cleg.  I'll  set  a  bourn  how  far  to  be  beloved. 
Ant.    Then  must  thou  needs  find  out  new  heaven,  new 
earth. 

-The  great  w4ttgs-of  th«  poet's  passion  beat  in 
the  superb  phrase.  In  the  very  first  act  Antony 
sees  with  Shakespeare's  clearness  of  vision  that 
he  must  break  these  "strong  Egyptian  fetters'' 
or  "  lose  himself  in  dotage  ";  but  he  is  not  strong 
enough  to  carry  his  insight  to  act.  Shakespeare 
marks  in  Antony  his  own  understanding  that  all 
remorse  is  pernicious: 

Things  that  are  past  are  done  with  me. 

Antony,  too,  gives  explicit  and  reiterated  ex- 
pression to  that  love  of  truth,  at  all  costs,  which 
was  the  sign  at  once  and  -pek-star  of  Shake- 
speare's intelligence : 

Who  tells  me  true,  though  in  his  tale  lie  death, 
I  hear  him  as  he  flatter'd.  .  .  . 
216 


CUopatra-F  itton 
Again  this  Shakespeare-Antony  cries: 

Speak  to  me  home,  mince  not  the  general  tongue; 

Name  Cleopatra  as  she  is  call'd  in  Romej 

Rail  thou  in  Fulvia's  phrase,  and  taunt  my  faults 

With  such  full  license  as  both  truth  and  malice 

Have  power  to  utter.      O,  then  we  bring  forth  weeds, 

When  our  quick  minds  lie  still,  and  our  ills  told  us 

Is  as  our  earing  .  . 

To  hear  of  our  faults,  Shakespeare  says,  is  as 
the  ploughing  and  fecundating  of  the  mind:  at 
forty-four  he  was  still  young  In  spirit. 

The  dignity,  too,  with  which  Antony  confesses 
his  fault  to  Caesar  and  himself  pronounces  abso- 
lution. Is  finely  characteristic  of  Shakespeare's  In- 
tellectual pride. 

Cleopatra's  belief,  however,  that  Antony  was 
''  the  greatest  soldier  of  the  world  "  does  not  con- 
vince us;  nor  Pompey's  statement  that  his  "  sol- 
diership Is  twice  the  other  twain  .  .  ."  We  are 
rather  Inclined  to  credit  Shakespeare  himself 
when  he  tells  us  through  Caesar  that  Shakespeare- 
Antony  Is  child-like  In  maturity  and  will  "  pawn 
his  experience  to  present  pleasure."  That  Is  the 
judgment  of  the  Intellect  on  the  artist-lover. 

When  his  insensate  passion  has  brought  him  to 
ruin  this  Antony-Shakespeare  naturally  reaches 
supreme  utterance.  As  soon  as  he  Is  defeated 
the  old  phrase  rises  to  his  lips: 

217 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

I   am  so   lated  in   the   world,  that  I 
Have  lost  my  way   for  ever:  .  .  . 

It  might  be  Richard  II  speaking  or  Hamlet, 
or  any  other  of  Shakespeare's  incarnations;  and 
this  Antony  has  a  ship  laden  with  gold  to  bestow 
upon  his  friends. 

When  Cleopatra  comes  to  beg  forgiveness  for 
betraying  him,  he  must  put  his  fault  on  her;  but 
when  Enobarbus — who  is  the  intellectual  con- 
science, so  to  speak,  of  the  play — is  asked  who  Is 
in  fault,  he  tells  the  simple  truth: 

Antony  only,  that  would  make  his  will 
Lord  of  his  reason  .  .  . 

In  spite  of  this  condemnation,  Shakespeare 
having  Mary  Fitton  in  mind  persists  in  making 
Antony  blame  Cleopatra,  though  this  feminine 
railing  is  an  unnecessary  weakness  in  Antony. 

.  .  .  whither  hast  thou  led  me,  Egypt? 

he  cries,  and  again  In  words  that  are  from  Shake- 
speare's very  soul: 

.  .  .  Egypt,  thou  knew'st  too  well 
My  heart  was  to  thy  rudder  tied  by  the  strings. 
And  thou  shouldst  tow  me  after:  o'er  my  spirit 
Thy  full  supremacy  thou  knew'st,  and  that 
Thy  beck  might  from  the  bidding  of  the  gods 
Command  me. 

218 


Cleopatra-F  itton 

His  gypsy  queen  begs  again  for  pardon,  and 
he  gives  it  in  a  quick  change  of  mood  most  gen- 
erously : 

Fall  not  a  tear,  I  say :  one  of  them  rates 
All  that  is  won  and  lost:  give  me  a  kiss; 
Even  this  repays  me.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Fortmie  knows 
We   scorn   her   most   when   most   she   offers   blows 

But  when  a  little  later  he  finds  her  allowing 
Caesar's  messenger,  Thyreus,  to  kiss  her  hand  he 
rages  against  her,  as  we  have  seen  Shakespeare 
raging  again  and  again  in  half  a  dozen  different 
tragedies  against  Mary  Fitton;  though  here  prob- 
ably his  reproaches  are  bolder  than  he  ever  dared 
use  to  his  great  mistress's  face: 

You  have  been  a  boggier  ever: 
But  when  we  in  our  viciousness  grow  hard — 
O  misery  on't! — the  wise  gods  seel  our  eyes; 
In  our  own  filth  drop  our  clear  judgments;  make 

us 
Adore  our  errors ;  laugh  at's,  while  we  strut 
To  our  confusion. 

Cleg.  O,  is't  come  to  this.^* 

Ant.     I  found  you  as  a  morsel  cold  upon 

Dead  Csesar's  trencher;  nay,  you  were  a  fragment 
Of  Cneius  Pompey's;  besides  what  hotter  hours, 
Unregister'd  in  vulgar  fame,  you  have 
Luxuriously  pick'd  out:  for  I  am  sure. 
Though  you  can   guess  what  temperance  should 

be 
You  know  not  what  it  is.  .  .  . 


219 


>.., 


Thf  Women  of  Shakespeare 

O,  that  I  were 
Upon  the  hill  of  Basan,  to  outroar 
The  horned  herd!  for  I  have  savage  cause. 


This  is  the  truth  about  Mary  Fitton  at  last: 
she  did  not  know  what  temperance  was  in  her 
love  of  luxurious  hot  hours.  But  all  this  raving 
insane  jealousy  with  its  "  savage  cause  "  is  only 
the  obverse  of  the  man's  intense  desire.  He  soon 
forgives  her;  calls  her  **  my  heart  "  and  cries: 

.  .  .  Come 
Let's  have  one  other  gaudy  nignt:  .  .  , 

This  Antony-Shakespeare  who  has  lost  every- 
thing including  honour  yet  in  his  abandonment 
finds  treasure  in  the  richness  of  his  soul.  When 
he  hears  that  Enobarbus  has  left  him,  he  sends 
his  money  after  him  with  nobly  generous  Shake- 
speare words: 

Go,  Eros,  send  his  treasure  after;  do  it; 
Detain  no  jot,  I  charge  thee:  write  to  him — 
I  will  subscribe — gentle  adieux  and  greetings; 
Say  that  I  wish  he  never  find  more  cause 
To  change  a  master.     O,  my  fortunes  have 
Corrupted  honest  men!  .  . 

Surely  this  is  the  gentlest,  wisest  soul  that  ever 
revealed  its  sweetness  in  literature. 

220 


I 


Cleopatra-F  itton 

Betrayed  again  by  Cleopatra,  Antony  finds  su- 
preme expression  for  his  love  and  for  his  con- 
tempt : 

.  .  .  Betray'd  I  am: 
O,  this  false  soul  of  Egypt!  this  grave  charm 
Whose  eye  beck'd  forth  my  wars,  and  call'd  them  home; 
Whose  bosom  was  my  crownet,  my  chief  end — 
Like  a  right  gipsy,  hath  at  fast  and  loose, 
Beguiled  me  to  the  very  heart  of  loss  .  .  . 

As  soon  as  Antony,  the  lover,  hears  that  Cleo- 
patra is  dead  he  closes  the  sweet-scented  book  of 
life  and  follows  eagerly: 

Unarm,  Eros:  the  long  day's  task  is  done. 
And  we  must  sleep  .  .  . 

His  passion  for  his  gypsy-wanton  holds  to  the 
end: 


I  here  importune  death  awhile,  until 
Of  many  thousand  kisses  the  poor  last 
I  lay  upon  thy  lips. 

I  have  given  a  little  more  space  to  Antony's 
character  than  becomes  the  purpose  of  these  ar- 
ticles because  Shakespeare  never  revealed  the  in- 
tense desire  that  burned  in  him  throughout  his 
whole  mature  life  so  completely  as  in  this  Antony. 
But  the  Roman  general's  armour  does  not  suit 

221 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

Shakespeare,  and  so  Antony's  very  last  words, 
though  true  enough  to  the  Roman,  are  not  true 
to  the  poet : 

I  lived  the  greatest  prince  o'  the  world 
The  noblest,  and  do  now  not  basely  die, 
Not  cowardly  put  off  my  helmet  to 
My  countryman,  a  Roman  by  a  Roman 
Valiantly  vanquished.     Now  my  spirit  is  going; 
I  can  no  more. 

Shakespeare  himself  Is  not  satisfied  with  this 
summing  up :  he  puts  the  true  word  for  himself 
as  the  supreme  creative  artist  in  the  mouth  of 
Caesar's  friend  Agrippa: 

...  A  rarer  spirit  never 
Did  steer  humanity:  but  you,  gods,  will  give  us 
Some  faults  to  make  us  men.  .  .  . 

But  If  Shakespeare  Is  not  perfectly  at  home  in 
the  stiff  armour  of  the  Roman  general,  If  his  pas- 
sion is  too  poetic,  his  generosities  and  nobilities 
too  unlimited  and  too  lavish;  his  superb  mistress, 
Mary  Fitton  finds  at  length  in  Cleopatra  a  part 
that  suits  her  to  perfection.  All  great  craftsmen 
are  helped  now  and  then  by  chance  or  by  the  hap 
of  lucky  hours  to  some  masterpiece  beyond  their 
imagining.  More  than  any  other  artist,  partly 
by  reason  of  his  ever-welling  sympathy,  partly  be- 

222 


Cleopatra-Fitton 

cause  of  his  tireless  industry,  Shakespeare  was 
blessed  with  these  favours  of  fitful  fortune.  We 
have  seen  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  how  his  weak- 
nesses were  complemented  by  the  realistic  fea- 
tures supplied  to  him  by  his  forerunner  Brooke 
in  the  portrait  of  the  garrulous  venal  old  Nurse; 
so  here  his  desire  to  strip  and  flay  his  mistress 
as  he  did  in  Cressida  is  complemented  by  the  fact 
that  Cleopatra  did  at  length  rise  to  unselfish 
greatness,  and  take  her  own  life.  She  may  have 
killed  herself  out  of  pride  to  avoid  being  dragged 
as  a  show  in  Caesar's  triumph  or  out  of  love  for 
Antony,  or  both  motives  may  have  swayed  her; 
but  she  did  commit  self-murder  and  that  redeems 
her  for  us,  lends  her  that  soul  of  greatness  if  not 
of  goodness  which  makes  us  forgive  the  wanton 
blood  because  of  the  immortal  longings  which 
lifted  her  to  tragic  heights. 

I  have  analyzed  Cleopatra's  character  carefully 
and  fully  in  my  book  The  Man  Shakespeare;  yet 
the  character-painting  is  so  rich  that  I  am  de- 
lighted to  show  the  extraordinary  picture  again 
in  a  new  and  perhaps  a  more  favourable  light. 

Two  groups  of  qualities  in  Mary  Fitton  seem 
to  have  struck  Shakespeare  almost  from  the 
beginning;  her  cunning  pretence  of  coldness  gild- 
ing utter  wantonness,  and  her  dominant  person- 

22S 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

allty  armed  with  quick  wit  and  quicker  temper. 
While  giving  all  these  peculiar  qualities  to  her  in 
all  his  better  portraits  he  usually  lays  stress  upon 
the  one  set  rather  than  the  other.  For  instance, 
in  Rosaline  in  Lovers  Labour's  Lost  he  brings 
out  her  cool  aloofness  and  wantonness  and  wit: 
in  Cressida  we  have  a  more  intense  Rosaline:  her 
faithlessness  is  shown  to  us  in  act;  she  confesses 
that  her  coldness  Is  only  a  pretence  used  to 
quicken  the  desires  of  her  lover.  On  the  other 
hand,  in  the  "  dark  lady  "  of  the  sonnets  Shake- 
speare has  emphasized  the  domineering  strength 
of  his  mistress's  personality;  vices  in  her  become 
beauties,  he  tells  us;  and  In  Cleopatra  this 
strength  of  personality  is  insisted  upon  again  and 
complicated  with  cajoleries  and  quick  wit  and  hot 
temper.  This  magic  of  personality  and  high- 
spirited  witty  boldness  were  clearly  the  qualities 
Shakespeare  most  admired  in  his  mistress,  just  as 
the  cunning  wiles  and  wantonness  were  the  "  foul 
faults "  he  raves  against  In  both  sonnets  and 
plays.  When  he  wrote  Troilus  and  Cressida, 
there  had  been  a  rebirth  of  passion  between  them 
and  probably  a  nev/  betrayal.  Before  he  wrote 
Antony  and  Cleopatra  he  had  enjoyed  an  Indian 
summer  of  delight.  For  one  peculiarity  of 
Shakespeare  seems  to  be  that  working  as  he  did 

224 


Cleopatra-Fitton 

with  extraordinary  constancy  his  experiences  of 
every  year  or  even  of  every  month  tinged  and  col- 
oured his  art.  His  plays  and  poems  thus  become 
documents  of  a  singular  and  Intimate  self-reveal- 
ing— windows,  so  to  speak,  through  which  we  can 
follow  his  soul's  adventures. 

The  very  first  scene  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra 
shows  that  Shakespeare's  love  Is  happy  and  In  full 
flood.  As  his  continual  disappointments  have  em- 
bittered him  he  needs  happiness  In  order  to  give 
us  at  all  a  fair  picture  of  his  mistress;  even  at  his 
best  now  he  Is  likely  to  err  by  making  the  shadows 
too  heavy.  The  joy  In  the  play  then  Is  a  good 
omen.  At  the  very  beginning  Cleopatra  teases 
Antony  jealously;  messengers  from  Rome  are 
announced,  and  she  cries,  "  Fulvla  perchance  Is 
angry,"  or  "  Young  Caesar  may  have  sent  his 
*  powerful  mandate  '  to  you."  Antony  will  not 
listen  but  strikes  the  key-note  which  we  hear 
again  at  the  end  of  the  drama;  he  and  his  love 
are  a  pair  without  peer  in  the  world;  of  that  at 
least  Shakespeare  was  certain. 

"  Stirr'd  by  Cleopatra  "  with  jibes  and  jealousy 
Antony  will  give  himself  to  "  love  of  Love  and 
her  soft  hours." 

But  Cleopatra  taunts  him: 

Hear  the  ambassadors. 
225 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

He  replies : 

.  .  .  Fie,  wrangling  queen! 
Whom  everything  becomes,  to  chide,  to  laugh. 
To  weep,  whose  every  passion  fully  strives 
To  make  itself,  in  thee,  fair  and  admired ! 

Shakespeare  used  precisely  the  same  words  to  his 
"  dark  lady  "  of  the  sonnets,  in  Sonnet  150: 

Whence  hast  thou  this  becoming  of  things  ill 
That  in  the  very  refuse  of  thy  deeds 
There  is  such  strength  and  warranties  of  skill 
That  in  my  mind,  thy  worst  all  best  exceeds?  .  .  . 

As  if  to  impress  the  strange  fact  upon  us  Eno- 
barbus  'sings  of  Cleopatra  to  the  same  tune ; 

.  .  .  vilest  things 
Become  themselves   in  her.  .  .  . 

Her  jealousy  is  then  wonderfully  rendered  again: 
Fulvia's  death  is  announced,  and  Antony  is  re- 
solved as  Shakespeare  no  doubt  resolved  a  thou- 
sand times: 

f     I  must  from  this  enchanting  queen  break  off: 
I     Ten  thousand   harms,   more  than  the  ills   I  know. 
My  idleness  doth  hatch.  .  .  . 

But  Enobarbus  tells  him  that : 

Cleopatra,   catching  but  the   least  noise  of  this, 

dies  instantly: 
I  have  seen  her  die  twenty  times  upon  far  poorer 
moment.  .  .  . 
Ant.  She  is  cunning  past  man's  thought. 

226 


Cleopatra-Fitton 

Enobarbus  will  not  have  it.  He  sees  more 
clearly:  I  call  him  the  conscience  of  the  play,  the 
embodiment  of  Shakespeare's  judgment.  He 
says: 

Alack,  sir,  no;  her  passions  are  made  of  nothing 
but  the  finest  part  of  pure  love:  .  .  . 
Ant.  Would  I  had  never  seen  her!  .  .  . 

But  Shakespeare's  impartial  intellect  will  not 
accept  that  lame  and  Ill-tempered  conclusion. 
Enobarbus  replies : 

O,  sir,  you  had  then  left  unseen  a  wonderful  piece  of 
work;  which  not  to  have  been  blest  withal  would  have 
discredited  your  travel. 

Cleopatra  paints  herself  again  for  us  to  the 
life  in  the  next  scene:  her  thought  is  all  of  An- 
tony: 

Cleo.  Where  is  he? 

Char.  I  did  not  see  him  since. 

Cleo.  See  where  he  is,  who's  with  him,  what  he  does: 
I  did  not  send  you:  if  you  find  him  sad. 
Say  I  am  dancing;  if  in  mirth,  report 
That  I  am  sudden  sick:  quick  and  return. 

She  is  a  feather  tossed  on  the  wind  of  passion. 
She  teases,  jibes,  and  is  jealous — all  from  intense 
love.  When  she  sees  that  Antony  Intends  to 
leave  her,  she  changes  at  once  to  tender  flattery 

227 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

and  good  wishes;  for  she  Is  Intent  on  winning  him 
back  again: 

And  all  the  gods  go  with  you!  upon  your  sword 
Sit   laurel   victory!  .  .  . 

Even  when  Antony  Is  absent  her  thoughts  are 
all  of  him.  The  scene  with  the  eunuch,  Mardian, 
is  a  masterpiece  Incomparable — a  perfect  cameo. 

She  goes  on  to  quarrel  with  Charmian  for  com- 
paring Caesar  with  Antony,  her  "  man  of  men." 
She  only  loved  Caesar  in : 

My  salad  days. 
When  I  was  green  in  judgment:  cold  in  blood  .  .  . 

She  feeds  herself  with  thoughts  of  Antony,  as 
*'  with  most  delicious  poison." 
In  her: 

.  .  .  witchcraft  joins  with  beauty,  lust  with  both!  .  .  . 

In  this  first  act  Cleopatra  is  already  painted  to 
the  life  with  such  ease,  mastery,  and  consummate 
hrtOy  as  no  other  dramatist  or  even  novelist  has 
ever  displayed.  Shakespeare  had  been  in  love 
with  Mary  Fitton  for  years.  She  had  got  into 
his  blood,  and  he  could  not  but  paint  her  for  us 
in  act  after  act,  in  a  dozen  differing  moods. 

Even  Shakespeare's  Intellectual  conscience  Eno- 

barbus  cannot  control  himself  when  he  speaks  of 

her: 

228 


Cleopatra-Fitton 

I  saw  her  once 
Hop  forty  paces  through  the  public  street; 
And  having  lost  her  breath,  she  spoke,  and  panted 
That  she  did  make  defect  perfection 
And,  breathless,  power  breathe  forth. 

This  incident  seems  to  me  a  veritable  perform- 
ance of  Mary  Fitton  reported  by  Shakespeare. 
It  must  have  made  a  deathless  impression  on  him. 
Not  only  does  it  throw  Enobarbus  off  his  perfect 
balance;  but  it  is  in  itself  too  peculiar  to  be  im- 
agined and  is  besides  not  at  all  in  keeping  with  the 
character  of  the  sensual  queen.  It  reminds  us- 
too  directly  of  the  bold  sonnet-heroine.  That  in- 
sistence upon  "  power  "  strikes  the  same  note  as 
in  Sonnet  150: 

O  from  what  power  hast  thou  this  powerful  might  .  .  .  ? 

In  the  fifth  scene  of  the  second  act  Cleopatra 
is  painted  for  us  again  to  the  finger-tips.  She  be- 
gins by  asking  for  music : 

.  .  .  moody  food. 
Of  us  that  trade  in  love.  .  .  . 

Then  come  memories  of  Antony: 

I  laugh'd  him  out  of  patience;  and  that  night 
I  laugh'd  him  into  patience;  and  next  morn 
Ere  the  ninth  hour,  I  drank  him  to  his  bed; 
Then  put  my  tires  and  mantle  on  him,  whilst 
I  wore  his  sword  Philippan.  .  .  . 

229 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

That  any  woman  could  drink  Antony  to  bed 
would  astonish  us,  but  Shakespeare  we  know  had 
"  very  poor  and  unhappy  brains  for  drinking." 
Still  the  dressing  up  of  Antony,  while  soft  Cleo- 
patra struts  about  with  a  sword,  realizes  the 
whole  scene  for  us  to  admiration. 

A  messenger  comes  from  Italy,  and  she  cries 
with  astounding  sensuality: 

Ram  thou  thy  fruitful  tidings  in  my  ears. 
That  long  time  hath  been  barren. 

If  good  news  there  is  gold  for  him: 

.  .  .  and  here 
My  bluest  veins  to  kiss  .  .  . 

— the  woman-temptress  to  perfection. 

She  is  anxious ;  has  a  mind  to  strike  him  ere  he 
speaks.  When  she  hears  that  Antony  is  married, 
she  is  lost  in  anger:  she  strikes  the  messenger 
and  hales  him  up  and  down  the  room  by  the  hair; 
will  kill  him :  then  the  revulsion  of  the  high-bred 
woman : 

These  hands  do  lack  nobility,  that  they  strike 
A  meaner  than  myself.  .  .  . 

She  must  know  ''  the  feature  of  Octavia  .  .  . 
her  years  .  .  .  her   inclination  .  .  .  the   colour 


Cleopatra-Fitton 

of  her  hair  "  and  in  especial  "  how  tall  she  is." 

Was  there  ever    such   portrait-painting  I     Every 

touch  in  place  and  finished  like  a  miniature.     The 

image  is  so  precise  that    Shakespeare's    mistress 

moves  across  the  canvas  before  our  eyes. 

The   important   feature   is   repeated.     In   the 

next  scene,  an  act  later,  Cleopatra  is  introduced 

with  the  messenger  again,  and  the  first  question 

is: 

Cleo.  Is  she  as  tall  as  me? 
Mes.     She  is  not^  madam; 

but  the  messenger  says  "  she  is  low-voiced." 
Cleopatra  admits  "  that's  not  so  good,"  but  im- 
mediately turns  the  man's  praise  to  blame.  To 
her  Octavia  is  "  dull  of  tongue  and  dwarfish." 
When  she  hears  that  her  rival's  face  is  "  round 
even  to  faultiness,"  she  decides  that 

For  the  most  part,  too,  they  are  foolish  that  are  so. 
Ker  hair  what  colour? 
Mes.  Brown,  madam;  and  her  forehead 
As  low  as  she  would  wish  it. 

At  once  she  gives  him  gold,  finds  him  most  fit  for 
business. 

Here,  as  in  another  far  earlier  portrait,  we 
learn  that  Mary  Fitton's  forehead  was  high  and 
her  face  rather  oval  than  round. 

til 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

Then  comes  the  catastrophe.  Enobarbus  will 
have  Antony  fight  on  land,  but  Cleopatra  wants 
him  to  fight  on  sea: 

I  have  sixty  sails,  Caesar  none  better. 

In  the  fight  she  flies;  he  follows  and 

The  greater  cantle  of  the  world  is  lost. 

Of  course  she  begs  pardon  of  Antony  and  gets  it. 
Then  comes  the  scene  in  which  she  gives  her 
hand  to  Thyreus,  Cassar^s  messenger,  to  kiss :  tell 
Cassar,  she  says, 

...  I  am  prompt. 
To  lay  my  crown  at's  feet,  and  there  to  kneel  .  .  . 

This  quick  change,  as  I  have  said  elsewhere,  is 
out  of  tune  with  the  play  and  unnecessary.  It  is 
true  to  Cressida,  no  doubt;  true  to  Shakespeare's 
mistress,  probably,  but  not  true  to  Cleopatra. 
Cleopatra  does  not  trust  herself  to  Cassar,  but  to 
death.  It  is  unnecessary  too, because  Shakespeare 
is  going  to  reveal  all  her  worst  to  us  in  the  scene 
with  her  treasurer  who  proves  that  she  has  con- 
cealed the  greater  part  of  her  wealth.  The 
shadows  are  already  dark  enough. 

It  is,  as  I  have  said,  the  historical  fact  that 
Cleopatra  kills  herself,  which  forces  Shakespeare 

232 


Cleopatra-F  itton 

to  do  justice  to  his  splendid  mistress.  Antony 
may  curse  her  as  a  "  triple-turn'd  whore/'  who 

...  at  fast  and  loose. 
Beguiled  me  to  the  very  heart  of  loss. 

But  it  Is  not  true.  Cleopatra  Is  merely  a  very 
sensuous  woman  who  at  the  crisis  loses  nerve  and 
fear-driven  flies  to  the  tower  as  she  fled  from  Ac- 
tium.  But  Antony  is  all  the  world  to  her,  and 
when  he  dies  she  declares,  or  Shakespeare  with  a 
contemptuous  allusion  to  Herbert  declares — for 
no  woman  and  especially  no  old  wanton  feels  con- 
tempt of  youth : 

.  .  .  young  boys  and  girls 
Are  level  now  with  men;  the  odds  is  gone, 
And  there  is  nothing  left  remarkable 
Beneath  the  visiting  moon. 

The  last  scenes  are  the  finest  of  all.     Cleo- 
patra says  to  Iras: 

My  desolation  does  begin  to  make 
A  better  life  .  .  . 

This  great  artist  in  duplicity  Is  not  to  be  cheated: 
she  distrusts  Caesar: 

.  .  .  girls,  he  words  me,  that  I  should  not 
Be  noble  to  myself:  .  .  . 

She  will  not  grace  his  triumph,  nor  be  "  chastised 
with  the  sober  eye  of  dull  Octavia  .  .  ."  she  has 

233 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

"  immortal  longings  "  In  her  and  at  the  supreme 
hour  the  high  temper  of  Shakespeare's  mistress 
breaks  Into  mocking:  she  wants  to  hear  the  asp 
"  call  great  Cassar,  ass  unpollcledl  " 

Aristotle  has  been  excessively  praised  because 
in  his  "  Poetics  "  he  tells  us  how  the  pity  and  fear 
of  a  great  tragedy  should  always  lead  to  a  "  ka- 
tharsls  ''  or  purification; perhaps  the  better  phrase 
would  be  to  something  consoling — a  reconcilia- 
tion. Aristotle  drew  his  theories  from  Sophocles, 
and  Shakespeare  with  a  still  finer  sense  of  fitness 
than  the  Greek  poet  recognized  the  same  neces- 
sity. He  always  gives  to  his  favourite  characters 
some  final  word  of  appreciation,  which  may  rec- 
oncile us  to  some  extent  to  their  unhappy  fate. 
Hamlet  at  the  end  is  called  a  ''  noble  heart  " ; 
Brutus  was  "  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all  " ; 
Othello  was  "  great  of  heart,"  and  so  now  at  the 
end  I  look  for  the  supreme  word  about  Cleopatra- 
Fitton.  I  confess  I  have  In  mind  that  "  modern 
grace  "  which  even  the  bitter  Bertram-Herbert 
admitted  in  her;  and  I  am  delighted  to  find  that 
Shakespeare  has  given  the  self-same  word  to  the 
cold  Csesar.     He  says : 

.  .  .  she  looks  like  sleep 
As  she  would  catch  another  Antony, 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace. 
234. 


Cleopatra-Fitton 

It  Is  Caesar  again  who  pronounces  the  supreme 
valediction  upon  the  lovers  In  which  Antony's 
words  at  the  beginning  of  the  drama  are  re- 
echoed: 

No  grave  upon  the  earth  shall  clip  in  it 
A  pair  so  famous  .  .  . 

What  a  pity  It  Is  that  Shakespeare  and  Mary 
FItton  do  not  sleep  together  In  the  great  Abbey! 

In  this  picture  of  Cleopatra  we  have  by  far  the 
finest  and  most  complex  portrait  of  Shakespeare's 
mistress;  we  even  learn  some  new  physical  fea- 
tures from  It;  she  was  tall  with  a  high  forehead, 
and  oval  rather  than  round  face.  Lofty  stature 
suits  the  superb  gypsy-wanton  with  her  white 
skin  and  pitch-black  eyes  and  hair.  Two  or  three 
mental  traits,  too,  are  here  given  her  that  are 
omitted  or  only  suggested  In  the  other  character 
sketches.  In  spite  of  the  "  siren  tears  "  we  read 
about  In  the  sonnets,  In  the  dramatic  presenta- 
tions Shakespeare's  mistress  does  not  weep;  but 
here  she  uses  that  weakness;  she  goes  further, 
she  even  dies  frequently,  Enobarbus  says.  In  order 
to  subdue  her  lover:  no  wonder  Antony-Shake- 
speare declares  "  she's  cunning  past  man's 
thought."  Here,  too,  her  passionate  love  Is  dis- 
played while  her  wantonness  Is  almost  left  out  of 

235 


The  IVomen  of  Shakespeare 

sight:  on  the  other  hand,  her  high  courage  and 
contempt  of  death  are  as  an  aureole  to  her — a  j 
most  astonishing,  veracious,  gaudy  portrait  I  call 
it,  the  finest  beyond  compare  in  all  literature, 
worthy  to  stand  with  Hamlet  and  with  Falstaff 
for  ever.  So  much  his  passionate  love  did  for 
Shakespeare  and  for  us. 


235 


CHAPTER   XII 

coriolanus  :  volumnia,  the  portrait  of 
Shakespeare's  mother 

"DEFORE  I  consider  his  last  four  or  Rve 
dramas  or  ''  romances  "  as  they  have  been 
aptly  called,  I  must  glance  at  a  play  which  was 
written  just  before  his  breakdown.  Coriolanus 
Is  an  even  poorer  play  than  Timon;  It  belongs  to 
the  same  period  of  the  poet^s  life.  There  are 
only  two  noteworthy  things  In  It:  the  boundless 
admiration  of  Coriolanus  for  his  mother,  and  his 
contempt  and  loathing  of  the  common  people. 

We  have  seen  again  and  again  In  the  course  of 
these  studies  how  Shakespeare  was  helped  by  the 
storytellers,  poets  and  historians  from  whom  he 
took  the  skeleton  of  his  plays.  Coriolanus  Is  an 
instance  of  the  contrary  and  shows  how  he  could 
be  led  astray  by  his  authority,  and  through  abso- 
lute ignorance  of  Roman  history,  could  turn  a  pic- 
ture into  a  monstrous  caricature.  The  source  of 
Coriolanus    was    Plutarch's    life    translated  by 

237 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

North.  Plutarch's  view  of  the  Roman  plebs  in  the 
time  of  Coriolanus  was  coloured  by  prepossessions 
derived  from  the  mob  of  his  own  time,  and  it  suf- 
fered besides  from  his  strong  aristocratic  preju- 
dice. He  speaks  of  the  popular  leaders  as  "  se- 
ditious tribunes,"  and  represents  the  plebs  as  a 
needy  rabble.  But  Plutarch  had  plain  facts  be- 
fore him  and  had  to  admit  that  the  poor  rabble 
and  their  tribunes  were  the  military  mainstay  of 
the  State,  whose  valour  often  put  the  better 
classes  to  shame.  The  way  the  plebs  won  redress 
of  intolerable  grievances  by  withdrawing  to  the 
Sacred  Mount  was  a  convincing  proof  of  self- 
control  and  disciplined  civil  temper. 

Shakespeare  caricatures  all  this.  He  himself, 
as  we  have  seen,  was  an  aristocrat  by  nature,  in 
love  with  all  the  distinctions,  dignities  and  deli- 
cacies of  life,  an  artist-aristocrat  of  the  finest 
poetic  sensibilities,  and  as  a  poet-dramatist  in  the 
age  of  Elizabeth  his  naturally  aristocratic  temper 
was  cultivated  to  excess.  The  middle  classes  of 
his  time  were  puritans,  who  misunderstood  and 
hated  his  art,  and  were  despised  by  him  as  "  lying 
shop-keepers  "  and  insane  sectaries.  The  people 
to  him  were  mere  groundlings,  a  low  mob  with- 
out understanding  or  taste.  In  spite  of  his  loy- 
alty to  truth,  he  attributes  the  victory  of  Agin- 

238 


Volumnia:  Shakespeare^ s  Mother 

court  to  the  king  and  nobles  though  it  was  won 
by  the  common  English  archers,  and  though  this 
historical  fact  was  before  him,  vouched  for  by 
Hollnshed.  In  Coriolanus  he  again  distorts  facts 
to  suit  his  aristocratic  prepossessions.  He  rep- 
resents the  people  as  curs,  "  hares  and  geese," 
their  caps  all  "  greasy,"  their  breaths  "  foul." 
It  may  be  said  that  Shakespeare  is  here  thinking 
of  the  English  people  and  not  of  the  Roman,  but 
bad  as  the  English  common  people  may  be,  stupid 
as  they  are,  sheepish  as  they  are,  they  yet  have 
courage  enough,  courage  indeed,  of  a  high  good- 
humoured  kind,  but  Shakespeare  denies  his  mob 
courage  and  Indeed  every  virtue. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  art,  this  is  not  the 
worst  fault  of  his  aristocratic  bias.  Again  and 
again  in  earlier  plays  he  has  shown  that  he  knew 
very  little  about  men  of  action;  the  fighting  men 
and  adventurers  who  were  the  most  characteristic 
product  of  that  jostling  time  were  not  his  favour- 
ites. He  has  never  given  us  any  portraits  of  the 
Drakes  or  even  of  the  Raleighs,  and  here  where 
'he  has  to  paint  an  aristocrat  of  great  courage  who 
is  self-willed  and  self-opinionated,  he  exaggerates 
his  faults,  and  turns  Coriolanus  into  an  insuffer- 
able braggart  and  bully,  thus  rendering  his  would- 
be  tragedy  ridiculous.     Plutarch,  helped  by  facts, 

239 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

was  in  this  Instance  a  far  better  artist  than  Shake- 
speare. He  says  of  Corlolanus:  his  "natural 
wit  and  great  heart  did  marvellously  stir  up  his 
courage  to  do  and  attempt  notable  acts  " ;  but 
"  for  lack  of  education  he  was  so  choleric  and  Im- 
patient that  he  would  yield  to  no  living  creature; 
which  made  him  churlish,  uncivil,  and  altogether 
unfit  for  any  man's  conversation."  It  Is  just  this 
"  lack  of  education  "  which  has  always  been  the 
most  conspicuous  fault  In  the  English  aristocrat; 
he  has  always  been,  as  Matthew  Arnold  put  It, 
"  Impervious  to  Ideas,"  and  one  would  have  ex- 
pected that  Shakespeare,  who  loved  books  and 
book-learning  and  large  generalizations,  would 
have  noted  this  and  drawn  the  moral  from  It;  but 
he  does  not.  His  Corlolanus  does  not  sin  out 
of  Ignorance  and  hatred  of  Ideas;  but  from  In- 
sensate pride.  Brutus  the  tribune  says  rightly 
enough  that  Corlolanus  tops  "  all  others  In  boast- 
ing," and  as  If  Corlolanus  himself  wished  to 
prove  this,  he  declares  he  could  fight  "  forty  citi- 
zens," and  this  piece  of  braggadocio  is  not  his 
worst.  When  banished  from  Rome  he  takes 
refuge  with  Aufidlus.  In  the  house  of  his  great 
enemy  he  cannot  help  bragging  of  his  victories 
over  the  people  to  whom  he  has  fled  for  refuge. 
The  scene  is  incredible.     Aufidlus  praises  him: 

240 


Volumnia:  Shakespeare^ s  Mother 

Saj,  what's  thy  name? 
Thou  hast  a  grim  appearance,  and  thy  face 
Bears  a  command  in't_,  though  thy  tackle's  torn. 
Thou  show'st  a  noble  vessel:  what's  thy  name? 

CoR.  Prepare  thy  brow  to  frown:  know'st  thou  me  yet? 

AuF.  I  know  thee  not:  thy  name? 

Cor.  My  name  is  Caius  Marcius,  who  hath  done 
To  thee  particularly  and  all  the  Volsces 
Great  hurt  and  mischief:  thereto  witness  may 
My  surname,  Coriolanus.  .  .  . 

This  out-Pistols  Pistol,  and  it  does  not  stand 
alone.  Coriolanus  brags  and  bullies  so  that  we 
lose  sympathy  with  him  and  take  sides  with  the 
mob  and  their  tribunes.  Again  and  again  Shake- 
speare makes  similar  if  less  grave  faults;  it  is  fair 
to  say  that  the  worst  blunders  in  all  his  work,  such 
as  this  silly  picture  of  bragging  Coriolanus,  the 
disgusting  caricature  of  Joan  of  Arc,  and  that 
dreadful  scene  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice  where 
young  noblemen  insult  Shylock,  who  has  been 
cheated  and  broken  by  a  quibbling  trick,  are  due 
directly  to  Shakespeare's  snobbislnije^  As  an 
artist  his  excessive  volubility,  even,  is  not  so  per- 
nicious a  weakness. 

The  other  theme  of  the  play  is  far  more  finely 
handled,  and  is  far  more  necessary  to  our  under- 
standing of  Shakespeare's  life.  In  Plutarch,  the 
mother  of  Coriolanus  has  more  influence  In  the 
crises  of  the  play  than  his  wife.     Shakespeare  ex- 

241 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

aggerated  this  tendency.  The  wife  is  gracious 
and  charming  in  Plutarch,  but  Shakespeare  finds 
a  new  trait  to  give  her  which  is  extraordinarily 
characteristic.  We  have  seen  how  in  youth  he 
disliked  his  own  wife  for  her  violent  temper  and 
bitter  scolding  tongue :  Coriolanus  here  addresses 
his  wife  as:  "  My  gracious  silence."  One  cannot 
but  smile  at  the  nursed  resentment  and  curious 
praise. 

The  wife  plays  hardly  any  part  in  the  drama; 
the  whole  interest  is  concentrated  on  the  mother 
and  son.  It  is  Volumnia  who  urges  her  son  to 
be  "  mild  "  and  win  the  consulship;  it  is  she  who 
reproves  him  for  his  impatient  despotic  temper, 
who  Induces  him  at  the  last  to  forego  his  revenge 
on  the  Romans,  and  spare  his  native  city.  The 
speech  of  Coriolanus  when  he  is  on  the  point  of 
yielding  to  his  mother's  pleading  is  impossible  in 
the  mouth  of  a  Roman  general,  but  is  all  the  more 
characteristic  of  Shakespeare  at  this  time: 


Like  a  dull  actor  now 
I  have  forgot  my  part,  and  I  am  out. 
Even  to  a  full  disgrace.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  You  gods !     I  prate. 
And  the  most  noble  mother  of  the  world 
Leave  unsaluted:  sink  my  knee,  i'  the  earth 
Of  thy  deep  duty  more  impression  show 
Than  that  of  common  sons.  .  .  . 
242 


Volumnia:  Shakespeare's  Mother 

Surely  in  the  last  lines  of  this  self-revealing 

speech  we  catch  an  echo  of  Shakespeare's  pride  in 

himself  and  his  intense  admiration  of  his  mother. 

Why  should  Coriolanus  praise  his  mother  to  us? 

We  expect  here  that  he  will  ask  her  to  share  in 

the  joy  of  his  victory  and  exult  in  his  success. 

But  what  he  does  is  to  praise  her  as  if  she  were 

dead;  and  the  truth  is  that  Shakespeare's  mother 

died  in  1608  some  little  while  before  Coriolanus 

was  written.     It  seems  to  me  that  his  main  reason 

for  writing  the  play  was  to  give  some  record  of 

his  admiration  for  his  mother.     A  little  later  he 

lets  her  say: 

.  .  .  There's  no  man  in  the  world 
More  bound  to's  mother.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  some  of  my  readers  may  wish  me  to 
carry  my  guess-work  or  divination  of  Shake- 
speare's real  meaning  a  little  further.     Volumnia 

says: 

.  .  .  here  he  lets  me  prate 
Like  one  i'  the  stocks.     Thou  hast  never  in  thy  life 
Show'd  thy  dear  mother  any  courtesy. 
When  she,  poor  hen,  fond  of  no  second  brood. 
Has  cluck'd  thee  to  the  wars  and  safely  home, 
Loaden  with  honour.  .  .  . 

Now  consider  the  wildly  exaggerated  lines: 

.  .  .  Thou  hast  never  in  thy  life 

Show'd  thy  dear  mother  any  courtesy.  .  .  . 

243 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

Corlolanus,  as  we  have  seen,  has  shown  his  mother 
every  courtesy,  and  followed  her  advice  again  and 
again.  It  is  poor  Shakespeare  who  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  mourning  and  sorrow  feels  that  he 
has  not  done  enough  for  his  "  dear "  mother 
while  she  was  alive,  has  not  rendered  her  courtesy 
enough.  I  think  it  probable  from  the  last  lines 
that  Shakespeare  when  a  youth  had  confided  to 
his  mother  his  Intention  of  going  to  London,  and 
that  she  had  encouraged  him. 

So  far  my  guess-work  is  borne  out  by  the  text; 
but  now  I  would  carry  it  a  little  farther  than  the 
text  may  seem  to  justify.  When  Coriolanus 
yields  and  agrees  to  be  reconciled  to  the  Romans, 
this  is  how  he  talks : 

O  mother,  mother ! 
What  have  you  done?     Behold  the  heavens  do  ope, 
The  gods  look  down  and  this  unnatural  scene 
They  laugh  at.     O  my  mother,  mother !     O ! 
You  have  won  a  happy  victory  to  Rome; 
But,  for  your  son  believe  it,  O  believe  it. 
Most  dangerously  you  have  with  him  prevail'd 
If  not  most  mortal  to  him.  .  .  . 

One  might  perhaps  ask  why  the  gods  should 
laugh  at  the  scene.  Nor  can  Coriolanus  know 
that  the  result  of  his  yielding  will  be  his  murder; 
it  is  all  out  of  character,  too,  for  a  man  brave 
to  madness  to  be  more  apprehensive  for  his  own 

244 


Volumnia:  Shakespeare's  Mother 

safety  than  his  mother.  The  fault  Is  slight,  but 
It  Is  there;  the  expressions  are  not  finely  suited  to 
the  situation;  they  are  a  little  strained  and  forced; 
just  enough  to  make  me  feel  that  his  mother  on 
her  death-bed  had  probably  begged  something  of 
Shakespeare  which  he  had  granted  very  reluct- 
antly, and  which  to  him  had  a  touch  of  bitter  hu- 
mour In  It.  His  mother,  I  feel,  had  made  him 
promise  to  be  reconciled  to  his  wife.  Think  of 
the  words;  let  them  sink  In  the  ear: 

.  .  .  O  my  mother^  mother!     O! 
You  have  won  a  happy  victory  to  Rome; 
Butj  for  your  son  believe  it,  O  believe  it. 
Most    dangerously   you    have   with   him    prevaiFd.  .  .  . 

It  Is  all  weak  and  gentle,  false  to  Corlolanus; 
but  most  true  to  Shakespeare  because  he  knew 
that  a  reconciliation  with  his  wife  could  not  be 
other  than  formal  to  him  and  worse — "  most 
dangerous  "  in  fact !  He  could  never  forgive  his 
wife  the  injury  she  had  done  him  In  forcing  him 
to  marry  her,  or  the  dangers  she  had  exposed  him 
to  when  she  drove  him  from  Stratford  with  her 
bitter  scolding. 

The  high  interest  of  Corlolanus  is  that  Shake- 
speare is  intent  on  showing  us  in  It  how  he  loved 
his  mother,  the  confidante  of  his  dreams  and  am- 
bitions in  boyhood,  and  how  deeply  he  regretted 

245 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

her:  .  .  .  "  no  man  In  the  world"  owed  more 
to  his  mother  ..."  the  most  noble  mother  of 
the  world."   .  .  . 

He  paints  her  for  us  too;  Volumnia  has  quick 
temper  but  more  Insight  and  good  sense;  she  is 
always  able  to  control  herself  in  deference  to 
judgment.  Shakespeare's  mother,  Mary  Arden, 
who  could  not  read  or  write,  had  in  her  the  wis- 
dom of  the  finest  English  natures;  she  saw  her 
own  faults  and  her  son's,  and  usually  counselled 
moderation.  It  was  not  his  quick,  adventurous 
and  unfortunate  father  whom  Shakespeare 
adored;  but  his  wise,  loving  mother.  Every 
mention  of  her  in  the  play  is  steeped  in  tender- 
ness; even  the  paltry,  prejudiced  tribune  Siclnius 
has  to  admit  that  Coriolanus  "  loved  his  mother 
deeply." 

The  professor-mandarins  will  naturally  pooh- 
pooh  all  this  as  if  it  were  the  very  extravagance  of 
conjecture;  but  after  all  it  is  for  the  reader  to 
judge  between  us. 


246 


CHAPTER   XIII 

Shakespeare's  daughter  judith  as  marina, 
perdita,  and  miranda 

Wo  ich  ihn  nicht  hab' 

1st  mir  das  Grab 

Die  ganze  Welt 

1st  mir  vergaellt. — Faust. 

TN  the  eleventh  chapter  we  saw  that  the  portrait 
"■•  of  his  "  dark  lady  "  as  Cleopatra  is  at  once 
the  truest  and  most  complex  portrait  of  his  wan- 
ton mistress  that  Shakespeare  ever  painted;  it 
was  also  his  last  portrait  of  her.  Antony  and 
Cleopatra  was  probably  written  early  in  1608 
shortly  before  Mary  Fitton  married  for  the  sec- 
ond time,  and  left  the  court  and  Shakespeare  for 
ever.  All  the  unquenched  desire,  all  the  ineffa- 
ble regret  and  sadness  of  his  long  passion  are  in 
those  deathless  words  of  the  dying  Antony: 

Of  many  thousand  kisses  the  poor  last 
I  lay  upon  thy  lips. 

When  Mary  Fitton  left  him,  Shakespeare  fell 

247 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

to  despair.  7"he  forces  of  youth  in  him  were  ex- 
hausted; his  nerves  gave  way,  and  he  crept  home 
to  Stratford  a  broken  man.  It  is  clear,  as  we 
shall  see  from  The  Tempest,  that  it  was  the  lov- 
ing care  and  tenderness  of  his  young  daughter 
Judith,  and  rest  in  his  native  air,  which  renewed 
his  lease  of  life.  He  was  forty-five  years  of  age 
when  he  struggled  again  into  the  sunshine,  shak- 
ing and  weak,  and  when  he  took  up  the  pen  once 
more  his  work  shows  in  every  line  diminished  vi- 
rility; of  a  sudden  he  had  grown  old.  As  I  have 
shown  in  The  Man  Shakespeare,  all  his  later 
"  romances,"  are  mere  pale  copies  of  earlier 
comedies.  The  humour  in  him  and  the  love  of 
life  have  grown  faint;  he  cannot  trouble  to  find 
new  stories,  or  rather,  it  is  only  the  old  ones  which 
appeal  to  him;  he  repeats  himself.  The  story  of 
The  Winter's  Tale  is  taken  from  Much  Ado; 
Hermione  is  slandered  Hero  over  again:  and  The 
Tempest  with  its  story  of  the  two  Dukes  repeats 
the  theme  of  As  You  Like  It.  Cymbeline,  too, 
is  hardly  more  than  a  mixture  of  the  themes  of 
both  these  earlier  comedies:  Imogen  is  slandered 
like  Hero  and  wanders  out  into  the  world  like 
Rosalind.  But  in  Pericles,  The  Winter^s  Tale 
and  The  Tempest  we  have  a  totally  new  figure, 
that  of  a  young  innocent  girl.    As  we  have  seen, 

248 


Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

Shakespeare  showed  his  grief  for  the  death  of  his 
mother  and  the  death  of  his  son  very  plainly;  we 
are  now  to  learn  what  a  profound  impression  his 
young  daughter  Judith  made  on  him. 

In  1608,  the  same  year  in  which  Mary  Fitton 
married  and  left  the  Court,  Shakespeare's  mother 
died.  He  was  probably  called  back  to  Stratford 
by  the  news  of  his  mother's  illness,  and  there  he 
came  to  know  his  daughter  Judith  intimately. 
She  was  already  twenty-two  years  of  age.  He 
could  not  have  seen  much  of  her  on  his  previous 
visits;  or  perhaps  he  did  not  then  need  so  much 
the  tenderness  she  had  to  give.  For  now  she  not 
only  became  dear  to  him;  but  was  a  solace  and 
source  of  strength.  From  this  time  on  she  lives 
for  us  in  his  art.  To  find  her  portrait  in  Marina 
of  Pericles,  in  Perdita  of  The  Winter* s  Tale,  and 
in  Miranda  of  The  Tempest  will  surprise  some 
readers,  but  the  evidence  is  really  quite  sufficient. 
It  should  strike  everyone  that  all  these  plays  arT\ 
warmed,  so  to  speak,  with  the  joy  of  reunit^dj) 
kinsfolk.  All  these  maiden-heroines,  too,  have 
abstract  names  and  are  all  manifestly  portrait^ 
of  the  same  girl,  who  was  lost  to  her  father] 
(Perdita)  and  is  now  admired  by  him  (Mi- 
randa). She  is  dutiful  and  sweet-tempered,  but 
^^bove  all  modest  in  mind  and  body.     As  we  have 

249 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

seen,  all  Shakespeare's  pictures  of  girls  before 
his  breakdown  were  tainted  with  coarseness  which 
often  reached  the  impossible  of  uncharacteristic 
lewdness;  but  Marina,  Perdita,  and  Miranda  pro- 
claim themselves  virtuous  at  all  costs.  Instead 
of  Juliet's  and  Portia's  delighted  freedom  of 
speech  we  have  now  a  careful  avoidance  by  his 
girls  of  suggestive  allusions. 

The  change  is  abrupt  and  marked,  and  In  itself 
extraordinary.  I  can  only  explain  it  by  the  sup- 
position that  it  was  his  daughter  who  brought 
Shakespeare  to  better  knowledge.  He  goes  out 
of  his  way  to  tell  us  in  The  Tempest  that  when 
cast  adrift  to  die,  it  was  his  angelic  daughter  who 
won  him  back  to  life  and  endurance.  The  con- 
fession in  the  mouth  of  a  magician  Is  so  extraor- 
dinary that  I  may  be  forgiven  for  believing  that 
it  Is  Shakespeare's  account  of  what  his  daughter 
really  was  to  him  In  his  misery  and  loneliness: 

.  .  .  O,  a  cherubin 
Thou  wast  that  did  preserve  me.     Thou  didst  smile 
Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven. 
When  I  have  deck'd  the  sea  with  drops  full  salt 
Under  my  burthen  groan'd;  which  raised  in  me 
An  undergoing  stomach  to  bear  up 
Against  what  should  ensue. 

How  the  babe  only  three  years  old  could  show 

250 


Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

"  fortitude  "  Prospero  does  not  tell  us;  but  now 
let  us  consider  these  ''  romances  "  In  order. 

Pericles  Is  the  earliest  of  them  and  Is  to  me 
very  Interesting  for  a  dozen  reasons,  the  most  ob- 
vious, though  certainly  not  the  most  Important, 
being  that  the  commentators  all  agree  that ''  large 
parts  of  It  are  not  by  Shakespeare."  The  poets 
as  usual  set  the  tune.  Coleridge  finds  In  the  be- 
ginning signs  of  Shakespeare's  "  Indifference," 
and  Swinburne  talks  of  the  "  lean  and  barren 
style  of  these  opening  acts."  Thus  encouraged 
the  mandarins  give  tongue  boldly.  Professor 
Herford  bundles  the  first  two  acts  neck  and  crop 
out  of  Shakespeare's  work:  ''  they  are  equally  de- 
void of  the  brilliance  of  his  youth  and  of  the  sub- 
tle technique  of  his  maturity.  They  combine  the  J 
Imperfect  craft  of  the  'prentice  with  the  dulness  of/ 
the  journeyman."  How  categorical  these  pro- 
fessors are,  to  be  sure,  in  condemning  poor  'pren- 
tice Shakespeare  who  had  already  a  dozen  master- 
pieces to  his  credit — masterpieces  they  are  not 
able  to  understand! 

Even  Marina's  story  does  not  please  the  pro- 
fessor completely.  The  "  powerful  realism  of 
Boult  and  his  crew  "  In  the  brothel  was,  he  as- 
sures us  airily,  "  within  the  compass  of  many  a 
Jacobean  dramatist." 

251 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

It  is  beside  my  purpose  at  the  moment  to  prove 
that  all  this  Is  evidence  of  something  else  than 
Shakespeare's  incompetence. 

I  find  the  master  on  almost  every  page  in  Peri- 
cles. The  character  of  Pericles  is  manifestly 
Shakespeare's  work  from  beginning  to  end:  he  Is, 
Indeed,  an  Incarnation  of  Shakespeare  himself, 
and  his  words  are  curiously  characteristic  and 
beautiful.  Take  almost  his  first  speech  in  the 
first  scene  of  the  first  act,  when  the  daughter  of 
Antlochus  enters: 

See  where  she  comes  apparelVd  like  the  spring, 
Graces  her  subjects,  and  her  thoughts  the  king 
Of  every  virtue  gives  renown  to  men! 
Her  face  the  book  of  praises,  where  is  read. 
Nothing  but  curious  pleasures  as  from  thence. 
Sorrow  were  ever  raz'd,  and  testy  wrath 
Could  never  be  her  mild  companion.  .  .  . 

Where  else  but  In  Shakespeare  could  one  find 
anything  like  the  magnificent  lines  I  have  put  in 
italics?  Swinburne's  idea  of  a  "  lean  and  barren 
style  "  is  amusing.  I  wonder  how  many  finer 
lines  there  are  in  all  the  treasury  of  English  verse 
than  this: 

See  where  she  comes  apparell'd  like  the  spring. 

The  very  soul  of  Shakespeare  is  in  the  divine 
phrase;  and  what  an  optimist  he  was  even  to  the 

252 


II 


Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

end;  he  will  always  have  it  that  it  is  "virtue 
gives  renown  to  men,"  whereas  surely  it  is  the  ex- 
traordinary, the  singular,  whether  for  good  or 
evil;  the  "sport,"  in  fact.  Nero  will  probably 
be  remembered  for  his  crimes  as  long  as  Marcus 
Aurelius  for  virtue. 

The  whole  passage  is  as  characteristic  of 
Shakespeare  as  anything  that  can  be  found  in  all 
his  works.  The  phrase  that  her  face  is  "  the 
book  of  praises,  where  is  read  nothing  but  curious 
pleasures,"  fills  me  with  wonder  for  its  peculiar 
frankness  and  with  hope  that  Shakespeare  will  go 
on  to  tell  us  more  about  his  mistress.  We  shall 
see  in  a  moment  that  the  hope  is  in  part  justified. 
Now  I  must  proceed  with  the  proof  that  the  writ- 
ing is  Shakespeare's  and  his  alone. 

The  pregnant  confusion  of  that  "  testy  wrath  " 
and  "  mild  companion "  should  have  brought 
even  the  professors  to  knowledge,  for  it  is  an 
excellent  instance  of  Shakespeare's  overhasty 
thought. 

The  next  speech  of  Pericles  is  just  as  charac- 
teristic.    It  begins: 

Antiochus,  I  thank  thee  who  hath  taught 
My  frail  mortality  to  know  itself; 

I  do  not  need  to  quote  more;  this  is  Shakespeare 

253 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

speaking  as  he  speaks  through  Hamlet,  without 
disguise. 

Then  Pericles  is  given  the  riddle  to  read, 
and  at  once  he  understands  that  the  girl  he  loves 
and  seeks  In  marriage,  has  been  guilty  of  Incest 
with  her  own  father.  This  is  how  Pericles- 
Shakespeare  takes  the  blow: 

.  .  .  O  you  powers 
That  give  heaven  countless  eyes  to  view  men's  acts. 
Why  cloud  they  not  their  sights  perpetually. 
If  this  be  true,  which  makes  me  pale  to  read  it.^* 
Fair  glass  of  light,  I  loved  you,  and  could  still, 
Were  not  this  glorious  casket  stored  with  ill; 
But  I  must  tell  you  now  my  thoughts  revolt; 
For  he's  no  man  on  whom  perfections  wait 
That  knowing  sin  within  will  touch  the  gate. 
You  are  a  fair  viol,  and  your  senses  the  strings; 
Who,  finger'd  to  make  man  his  lawful  music. 
Would  draw  heaven  down,  and  all  the  gods,  to  hearken: 
But  being  play'd  upon  before  your  time, 
Hell  only  danceth  at  so  harsh  a  chime. 
Good  sooth  I  care  not  for  you.  .  .  . 

This  passage  Is  of  extraordinary  Interest  and 
Importance :  it  is  at  once  a  confession  of  Shake- 
speare's love — "  glorious  casket  " — and  a  con- 
demnation of  his  mistress's  wantonness.  It  Is 
not  the  Incest  which  shocks  Pericles  but  the  fact 
that  the  girl  he  loves  has  been  "  play'd  upon  "  be- 
fore her  time.  Mary  Fitton  had  been  "  play'd 
upon  "   before   she   met   Shakespeare    at   sixteen 

254 


Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

years  of  age.  He  is  extravagantly  severe  to  her 
offence;  she  came  to  him  tuned  to  another's  play- 
ing, and  what  words  he  finds  to  justify  his  se- 
verity: 

For  he's  no  man  on  whom  perfections  wait 

That  knowing  sin  within  will  touch  the  gate.  .  .  . 

What  a  fine  mind  was  Shakespeare's! — "  man 
on  whom  perfections  wait."  Surely  this  is  the 
same  poet  who  in  Hamlet  wrote  the  marvellous 
eulogy  on  man.  But  I  cannot  stomach  his  con- 
ventional, Pharisaical  sex-morality.  I  am  heart- 
glad  he  was  more  tolerant  in  action  than  in 
speech,  and  had  proved  such  sin  a  good  many 
times  before  condemning  it. 

The  next  speech  of  Pericles  is  dramatically 
better  suited  to  the  circumstances,  and  at  the  same 
time  no  less  characteristic  of  Shakespeare.  He 
says  with  a  certain  irony: 

Great  king. 

Few  love  to  hear  the  sins  they  love  to  act; 

'Twould  braid  yourself  too  near  for  me  to  tell  it: 

Who  has  a  book  of  all  that  monarchs  do. 

He's  more  secure  to  keep  it  shut  than  shown: 

For  vice  repeated  is  like  the  wandering  wind, 

Blows  dust  in  others'  eyes  to  spread  itself;  .  .  . 

The  reticence  of  speech  and  Its  justification  by 
fear  are  peculiarly  English. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  first  scene  of  a 
%B5 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

first  act  in  which  Shakespeare  has  revealed  him- 
self with  such  frankness  and  such  masterly  skill 
as  in  this  first  scene  of  Pericles. 

In  the  second  act  Pericles  is  home  again  in 
Tyre  and,  instead  of  rejoicing  at  his  escape,  de- 
clares he  is  full  of  melancholy  without  rhyme 
or  reason — the  uncaused  melancholy,  again,  of 
Jaques  and  Hamlet  and  Antonio.  Here  are  the 
words : 

Let  none  disturb  us. 
Why  should  this  change  of  thoughts. 
The   sad   companion,    dull-eyed   melancholy, 
Be  my  so  used  a  guest  .... 

Here  pleasures   court  mine   eyes,   and  mine  eyes   shun 
them  .  .  . 

I  need  not  continue:  it  must  be  enough  now  just 
to  state  here  that  the  scene  with  the  fishermen  in 
this  second  act  is  so  characteristic  of  Shakespeare 
that  one  might  give  parallel  words  from  other 
plays  for  almost  every  line  of  it.  The  truth  seems 
to  be  that  in  this  play  Shakespeare  often  expresses 
new  ideas,  and  naturally  his  word-music  suffers. 
But  even  Coleridge  and  Swinburne  read  Shake- 
speare by  accent  and  adjective,  by  trick  of  rhythm 
and  word,  and  knew  but  little  of  his  soul;  his 
range  of  mind  was  clean  beyond  them,  and  they 
could  not  recognize  some  of  his  finest  work. 

256 


Shakespeare  s  Daughter  'Judith 

Professor  Herford  asserts  that  the  "  opening 
of  the  third  act,  by  one  of  the  most  amazing 
transitions  In  literature,  suddenly  steeps  us  In  the 
atmosphere  of  high  poetry."  But  there  Is  no 
such  transition,  and  he  who  like  the  professor 
would  attribute  the  scene  of  Pandar,  Boult  and 
Bawd  In  the  Brothel  to  any  one  but  Shakespeare, 
Is,  as  the  French  say,  "  capable  of  anything." 
On  one  page  I  find  Boult  crying  to  Marina :  "  that 
she  would  make  a  puritan  of  the  devil,  if  he  could 
cheapen  a  kiss  of  her,"  and  on  the  very  next  page 
Lyslmachus  says : 

She'll  do  the  deed  of  darkness, 

the  very  phrase  Edgar  uses  In  Lear. 

Some  day  I  may  go  through  this  comedy  and 
show  Shakespeare's  handiwork  on  every  page  as 
I  see  It;  but  here  I  have  perhaps  done  enough. 

Once  we  accept  the  fact  that  Pericles  Is  an  in- 
carnation of  Shakespeare  himself  and  that  the 
play  is  his,  two  points  must  Interest  us.  First  of 
all,  Pericles  was  one  of  Shakespeare's  most  popu- 
lar plays;  it  was  therefore  condemned  by  the  en- 
vious Jonson  as  "  a  mouldy  tale."  Its  popularity 
was  chiefly  due  to  the  scenes  in  the  brothel.  Did 
Shakespeare  deliberately  Invent  these  scenes  to 
win  the  applause  of  the  many?    I  believe  he  did, 

257 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

just  as  he  beat  the  patriotic  drum  in  Henry  V, 
long  after  he  had  ceased  to  feel  very  patriotic. 
Secondly,  what  most  surprised  Shakespeare  in  his 
daughter  Judith-Marina  was  her  modesty.  Her 
innate  purity,  indeed,  astonished  him  to  such  a 
degree,  impressed  him  so  sincerely,  that  he  shows 
it  to  us  by  placing  her  in  a  brothel  and  depicting 
her  as  immediately  converting  all  comers  and  even 
the  lewd  servant  to  belief  in  her  angelic  innocence. 
And  she  carries  it  all  through  with  a  high  hand. 
In  spite  of  his  disillusions  and  despairings,  Shake- 
speare still  idealizes  life  to  an  extraordinary  ex- 
tent. 

Marina  hardly  lives  for  us  though  Shakespeare 
has  lent  her  his  singing  robes  again  and  again. 
She  cries: 

O  that  the  gods 

Would  set  me  free  from  this  unhallow'd  place. 
Though  they  did  change  me  to  the  meanest  bird 
That  flies  i'  the  purer  air! 

But  on  the  very  next  page  she  tells  Boult  he  is: 

.  .  .  the  damned  doorkeeper  to  every 
Coistrel  that  comes  inquiring  for  his  Tib  .  .  . 

which  IS  excellent  Shakespeare  who  learned  scur- 
rility with  Doll  Tearsheet  and  Falstaff,  but  cer- 
tainly Is  not  pleasing  in  the  virginal  Marina,  and 

258 


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Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

in  the  next  page  when  Boult  asks,  "Can  you 
teach  all  this  you  speak  of?  "  she  replies: 

Prove  that  I  cannot,  take  me  home  again. 
And  prostitute  me  to  the  basest  groom 
That  doth  frequent  your  house. 

**  Prove  that  I  cannot,  bring  me  here  again," 
would  be  tremendous  in  its  reticence,  but  as  the 
phrase  stands,  and  especially  as  amplified  by  the 
next  two  lines,  it  becomes  a  rank  offence.  It  evi- 
dently took  more  than  Lear's  "  civet  "  to  sweeten 
Shakespeare's  imagination. 

Of  course,  this  Marina  must  go  on  to  brag  of 
her  gentle  birth: 

My  derivation  was  from  ancestors 

Who  stood  equivalent  with  mighty  kings.  .  .  . 

The  sketch  is  not  realized;  Marina  cannot  be  said 
to  live  for  us  in  spite  of  her  love  of  flowers  and 
her  purity,  but  this  last  quality  makes  her  so 
strange  an  apparition  In  Shakespeare's  pages, 
that  we  can  set  her  down  as  a  reflection  from  the 
real  world,  and  not  an  Imaginary  figure. 

The  Winter's  Tale  has  a  second  motive  in  it: 
not  only  does  it  glow  with  the  joy  of  reunited 
kinsfolk,  but  like  Cymheline,  Pericles  and  Henry 
VIII,  it  is  also  touched  with  the  tragedy  of  slan- 
dered womanhood.     Having  come  to  life  again 

259 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

and  some  measure  of  strength,  Shakespeare  can- 
not help  playing  sadly  with  the  idea  of  the  joy 
that  might  have  been  his,  had  Mary  Fitton  been 
true,  had  his  jealousy  slandered  her.  When 
Leontes  sees  his  wife's  image  he  cries: 

No  settled  senses  of  the  world  can  match 
The  pleasure  of  that  madness.  .  .  . 

I  find  further  evidence  that  Shakespeare  is  think- 
ing of  his  love,  Mary  Fitton,  in  The  Winter* s 
Tale,  as  much  as  he  is  thinking  of  his  reunion 
with  his  daughter,  in  an  incident  which  takes 
place  towards  the  end  of  the  play.  Paulina  re- 
proaches the  gentleman  for  praising  Perdita 
beyond  Hermione: 

.  .  .  your  writing  now 
Is  colder  than  that  theme,  *  She  had  not  been^ 
Nor  was  not  to  be  equall'd  ' ; — thus  your  verse 
Flower'd  with  her  beauty  once.  .  .  . 

That  "  She  had  not  been,  nor  was  not  to  be 
equall'd  "  is  significant  to  me. 

It  is  apparent  that  Shakespeare  has  given  Mary 
Fitton's  courage  and  quick  temper  to  Paulina, 
and  by  adding  loyalty  has  turned  her  into  an- 
other Beatrice.  But  the  most  convincing  piece 
of  evidence  of  the  personal  feeling  in  the  play 
lies  in  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  here,  in  Leontes, 

260 


Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

merely  copies  the  jealousy  which  he  has  already 
depicted  for  us  in  Hamlet  and  Othello,  and  which 
he  will  paint  again  in  Posthumus.  It  is  the  act 
always  that  enrages  him,  and  not  the  hurt  to 
tenderness  nor  the  loss  of  affection: 

.  .  .  his  pond  fish'd  by  his  next  neighbour,  by 
Sir  Smile,  his  neighbour.  .  .  . 

It  is  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of  the  falsity 
which  madden  him: 

Is  whispering  nothing? 
Is  leaning  cheek  to  cheek?  is  meeting  noses? 
Kissing  with  inside  lip?  stopping  the  career 
Of  laughter  with  a  sigh? — a  note  infallible 
Of  breaking  honesty —  .  .  . 

This  Shakespeare-Leontes,  too,  will  generalize 
his  affliction  and  rave  like  Lear  and  Timon: 

"  It  is  a  bawdy  planet  ...  no  barricado  for 
a  belly  .  .  .  many  thousands  on^s  have  the  dis- 
ease and  feePt  not.  .  .  ." 

A  chief  feature  of  all  these  romances  written 
after  his  breakdown  is  that  Shakespeare  falls  back 
again  into  his  incorrigible  idealism :  character  is 
immutable.  In  the  first  scene  of  the  first  act, 
young  Prince  Mamillius  is  praised  by  all  the  gen- 
tlemen with  superlatives  that  mock  reality.  It 
is  fitting  enough  In  Paulina  to  call  him  the  "  jewel 

261 


The  JVomen  oj  Shakespeare 

of  children,"  but  men  don't  praise  another  man's 
child  so  extravagantly.  Shakespeare  is  evidently 
thinking  of  his  son  Hamnet  who  died  in  boyhood. 
But  his  idealism  comes  to  clearest  viev^^  in  his  pic- 
ture of  Perdita.  She  is  like  a  sketch  copied  on 
tracing  paper  of  Marina.  There  is  the  same 
love  of  flowers,  but  enskied  now  in  the  rarest 
beauty  of  expression.  There  is  the  same  innate 
purity;  she  judges  her  lover  by  herself: 

By  the  p?itt(Tn  of  mine  own  thoughts  I  cut  out 
Tlie  purity  of  his.  .  .  . 

She  loves  modesty  of  speech  too:  she  begs  Flori- 
zel  to  warn  Autolycus  that  "  he  use  no  scurrilous 
words  in's  tunes."  Yet  every  now  and  then 
Shakespeare  mars  even  Perdita's  maiden  purity 
by  his  own  rank  imaginings,  as  he  docs  Marina's, 
though  not  so  grossly.  Perdita  speaks  of  Flori- 
zel  as: 

...  a  bank  for  h)ve  to  lie  and  play  on: 
Not  like  a  eor.S(t;  or,  if  not  to  be  buried, 
]Jijt  quiek  and  in  niy  arms.   .   .   . 

But  a  girl  cannot  be  painted  by  two  or  three  sim- 
ple touches  such  as  modesty,  a  love  of  flowers, 
and  a  pout  of  self-will,  for  these  qualities  are 
common  to  girlhood.  There  are  not  enough  in- 
dividual features  given  to  Perdita  to  make  her 

262 


i 


Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

live  for  us,  and,  worst  of  all,  there  are  no  faults; 
she  does  not  cast  a  shadow. 

It  takes  passion  to  teach  a  man  what  a  woman 
Is;  at  any  rate  it  took  passion  to  teach  Shake- 
speare, for  without  it,  he  could  not  even  portray 
the  daughter  he  loved.  Perdita  is  a  prettier  and 
daintier  sketch  than  Marina,  but,  after  all,  she  is 
only  the  merest  sketch. 

Everything  I  have  said  of  The  Winter^s  Tale, 
I  could  repeat  about  Cymbeline.  The  two  mo- 
tives of  his  later  romances  are  both  repeated  in 
it:  joy  in  the  reunion  of  kindred  and  the  tragedy 
of  slandered  womanhood.  But  Shakespeare  has 
enriched  Cymbeline  with  a  careful  full-length  por- 
trait of  himself  In  Posthumus,  a  stalder  Hamlet. 
Again  and  again,  now  through  this  character, 
and  now  through  that,  he  speaks  of  Mary  Fitton 
and  his  love  for  her  with  the  frankness  of  an  old 
memory.  The  Idealizing  tendencies  In  him  come 
to  full  flower  in  this  play.  He  will  paint  us  the 
rose  of  womanhood  in  Imogen,  and  nine  out  of 
ten  readers,  and  all  the  poets,  have  cheered  this 
long  catalogue  of  feminine  perfections  as  a  mas- 
terpiece of  portraiture.  Imogen,  of  course,  like 
Perdita,  does  not  live  for  a  moment:  she  has  not 
a  single  fault;  she  Is  faultily  faultless  Indeed,  in- 
humanly perfect;  and  no  man  or  woman  can  be 

263 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

made  lifelike  to  us  without  defects,  vices  which 
bear  some  subtle  relation  to  the  virtues.  Shake- 
speare, too,  saw  this,  but  his  idealizing  tendency 
prevented  him  from  acting  on  it.  In  The  Tem- 
pest his  Ferdinand  says : 

.  .  .  never  any 
With  so  full  a  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed 
And  put  it  to  the  foil.  .  .  . 

This  Imogen  is  not  only  an  abstract  of  perfection, 
she  is  perfection  as  imagined  by  weak  old  age,  and 
not  responsive-quick  as  desired  by  lusty  youth. 
One  has  only  to  put  her  beside  Juliet  for  a  mo- 
ment to  realize  how  Shakespeare  has  declined 
into  the  vale  of  years.     Juliet  says : 

Spread  thy  close  curtain,  love-performing  night. 
That  runaways'  eyes  may  wink,  and  Romeo 
Leap  to  these  arms,  untalk'd  of  and  unseen. 
Lovers  can  see  to  do  their  amorous  rites 
By  their  own  beauties. 

Posthumus  says  of  Imogen: 

Me  of  my  lawful  pleasure  she  restrain'd 
And  pray'd   me  oft   forbearance;   did  it  with 
A  pudency  so  rosy,  the  sweet  view  on't 
Might  well  have  warmed  old  Saturn. 

Neither  of  these  expressions  Is  finely  character- 
istic; but  of  the  two  the  words  of  Juliet  are  far 

264 


Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

the  truer  and  more  convincing.  There  is  a 
deeper  reality  in  Juliet's  passion;  and  in  her  high 
temper  and  contempt  of  the  Nurse  we  catch  the 
features  of  the  living  model  which  lend  life 
to  the  idealized  sketch.  Shakespeare's  greatest 
pictures  of  women  are  not  Perdita  nor  Imogen, 
much  less  any  of  the  goody-goody  nonentities  such 
as  Ophelia  or  Desdemona;  but  Juliet,  Beatrice, 
Rosaline,  and  Cressida,  and  above  all,  the  in- 
comparable Cleopatra,  '*  the  serpent  of  old  Nile." 
The  soul  of  Cymbeline  is  to  be  found  in  Shake- 
speare's portrait  of  himself  as  Posthumus,  and 
the  description  of  his  mad  jealousy.  He  has 
been  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  and 
has  crept  out  of  it  into  the  sunshine,  shaken  and 
infirm,  and  yet  as  soon  as  the  blood  begins  to 
move  again  in  his  veins  the  memories  of  his  lost 
mistress  begin  to  throb  and  ache:  the  jealous 
rage  of  her  infidelities  burns  in  him  till  he  dies. 
Lear's  image  is  the  finest  word  for  Shakespeare 
after  his  breakdown: 

You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  out  o'  the  grave. 
...  I  am  bound 

Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
i  Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

We  are  forced  to  recognize  in  this  jealous  rage 
of  Leontes  and  of  Posthumus  an  echo  of  the  same 
I  265 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

insensate  passion  that  raved  In  Hamlet  and 
Othello,  and  screamed  In  Lear  and  Timon. 
Leontes  uses  Hamlet's  very  words:  he  talks  of 
*'  paddling  palms  "  {Hamlet,  Act  III,  sc.  4),  and 
Posthumus  will  generalize  his  anger  till  It  reaches  | 
the  universal  condemnation  of  womanhood  of 
Lear  and  Timon.     He  says : 

Is  there  no  way  for  men  to  be  but  women 

Must  be  half-workers?     We  are  all  bastards;  .  ,  . 

Again  it  is  the  act  enrages  him: 

...   I  thought  her 

As  chaste  as  unsunn'd  snow,  O  all  the  devils! 

This  yellow  lachimo,  in  an  hour,  was't  not? — 

Or  less, — at  first? — perchance  he  spoke  not,  but 

Like  a  full-acorn'd  boar,  a  German  one. 

Cried  "  O  " ;  and  mounted ;  found  no  opposition 

But  what  he  look'd  for  should  oppose  and  she 

Should  from  encounter  guard.  .  .  . 

This  Posthumus  has  thought  over  every  fault 
a  woman  can  possess;  he  has  lived  with  jealousy 
for  years: 

.  .  .  could  I  find  out 

The  woman's  part  in  me!  for  there's  no  motion 
That  tends  to  vice  in  man,  but  I  affirm 
It  is  the  woman's  part:  be  it  lying,  note  it. 
The  woman's;   flattering,  hers;  deceiving,  hers; 
Lust  and  rank  thoughts,  hers,  hers  revenge,  hers; 
Ambitions,  covetings,  change  of  prides,  disdain, 
Nice  longings,  slanders,  mutability, 

966 


Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

All  thoughts  that  may  be  named,  nay,  that  hell  knows, 

Why  hers,  in  part,  or  all;  but  rather  all; 

For  even  to  vice 

They  are  not  constant,  but  are  changing  still 

One  vice,  but  of  a  minute  old,  for  one 

Not  half  so  old  as  that.     I'll  write  against  them. 

Detest  them,  curse  them:  yet  'tis  greater  skill 

In  a  true  hate  to  pray  they  have  their  will: 

The  very  devils  cannot  plague  them  better. 

In  these  last  two  lines,  I  fancy,  Shakespeare  is 
thinking  of  Mary  Fitton's  intrigue  with  Lord  Her- 
bert and  her  subsequent  disappointment. 

Posthumus,  as  I  have  shown  elsewhere,  is  not 
only  Shakespeare  in  his  jealousy,  but  Shakespeare 
in  every  fault  and  every  virtue.  Shakespeare's 
sympathy  with  the  poor  which  we  first  heard  in 
Lear  is  here  marked  again :  he  says  of  the  gods : 

I  know  you  are  more  clement  than  vile  men 
Who  of  their  broken  debtors  take  a  third; 
A  sixth,  a  tenth,  letting  them  thrive  again 
On  their  abatement.  .  .  . 

It  would  be  interesting  to  hear  Shakespeare^s 
opinion  of  Mr.  Chamberlain's  bankruptcy  laws  in 
which  these  same  "  vile  men  "  take  from  their 
"  broken  debtors,"  not  a  tenth  or  a  sixth,  but  all 
they  have,  and  then  hold  their  future  to  servitude. 
But  even  from  Shakespeare  the  English  will  only 
learn  the  lessons  which  please  them,  and  not  the 
nobler  teaching. 

267 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

Shakespeare's  patriotism,  too,  is  here  defined. 
Posthumus  says : 

For  being  now  a  favourer  to  the  Briton, 
No  more  a  Briton.  .  .  . 

He  is  as  wise,  too,  about  life  as  Hamlet,  and  a 
little  more  hopeless:  he  can  see  nothing  beyond 
the  grave  : 

I  tell  thee  fellow,  there  are  none  want  eyes 
To  direct  them  the  way  I  am  going,  but  such 
As  wink  and  will  not  use  them  .  .  . 

Like  Prospero  this  Posthumus  finds  the  "  fan- 
gled  world  "  a  dream. 

I  may  be  thought  to  be  going  too  far  when  I 
say  that  Shakespeare  brings  in  the  father  of  Post- 
humus as  an  easy  way  to  speak  again  of  Herbert: 

Why  did  you  suffer  lachimo. 

Slight  thing  of  Italy.  .  .  . 

To  taunt  his  nobler  heart  and  brain 

With  needless  jealousy; 

And  to  become  the  geek  and  scorn 

O'  th'  other's  villany? 

That  "  slight  thing  of  Italy  "  is  to  me  a  side- 
long glance  at  the  Italian  vices  of  Lord  William 
Herbert  and  the  Italianate  Englishman — the  foul 
suggestion  of  Parolles  and  of  Troilus  and  Cres- 
sida  here  repeated  again  and  emphasized. 

268 


Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

Shakespeare  Is  manifestly  thinking  of  Mary 
FItton  when  Cymbellne  thus  excuses  his  blind  love 
for  the  Queen: 

Mine  eyes 

Were  not  in  faulty  for  she  was  beautiful; 

Mine  ears,  that  heard  her  flattery;  nor  my  heart. 

That  thought  her  like  her  seeming;  it  had  been  vicious 

To  have  mistrusted  her:  yet  O  my  daughter! 

That  it  was  folly  in  me^  thou  may'st  say. 

And  prove  it  in  thy  feeling.     Heaven  mend  all! 

It  looks  to  me  as  If  Shakespeare  had  told  his  love- 
story  to  his  young  daughter.  The  end  Is  curi- 
ously characteristic:  ''Heaven  mend  all!"  I 
cannot  help  recalling  here  Shakespeare-BIron's 
expression  sixteen  years  before,  when  he  first  met 
his  love  and  realized  that  she  was  wanton: 
''Heaven  amend  us:  heaven  amend  us!"  But 
characteristic  as  It  Is,  It  Is  not  all  we  expected 
from  Shakespeare;  yet  It  was  his  last  word  on 
Mary  FItton  and  his  passion  for  her.  "  I  could 
not  help  It,"  he  cries,  "  the  fault  was  In  me  as 
well  as  in  her.  .  .  .  Heaven  amend  us.  .  .  . 
Heaven  mend  all." 

I  have  always  regarded  The  Tempest  as 
Shakespeare's  last  work;  his  testament,  I  have 
called  It,  to  the  English  people.  But  before 
speaking  of  Its  high  ethical  content,  let  me  just 
say  that  the  one  female  figure  In  it,   Miranda, 

269 


Tlie  Women  of  Shakespeare 

though  much  more  carefully  painted,  Is  not  so 

successful  a  portrait  as  that  of  Perdlta.     Perdlta 

has  a  touch  of  wilfulness  In  her  and  passion  which 

gives  her  a  sort  of  life;  she  dances  before  us  with 

girlish   grace,    flower-crowned.      Miranda   Is   all 

pity,  love,  and  humble  courtesy;  his  daughter  Is 

no  longer  so  present  to  Shakespeare;  and  In  spite 

of  the  magic  of  his  poetry,  Miranda  is  only  an 

ethereal  shadow-shape,  hardly  as  human.  Indeed, 

as  Ariel.     Let  us  take  the  confession  of  her  love. 

She  says  to  Ferdinand: 

...  by  my  modesty, 
The  jewel  in  my  dower,  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you. 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape. 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of.    But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly.  .  .  . 

"  I  would  not  wish  any  companion  in  the  world 
but  you,"  Is  a  gem  of  the  purest  water;  but  I  can- 
not abide  the  "  modesty "  business,  and  that 
"prattle"  gets  on  my  nerves;  It  sounds  like 
a  giddy  young  thing  of  forty-five  talking;  it  is  not 
to  be  endured.  A  little  later  Ferdinand  tells  her 
of  his  love,  and  Miranda  weeps,  in  Early- Victo- 
rian fashion,  at  what  she  longs  for.  My  will  to 
admire  is  washed  away;  Miranda  is  too  mawk- 
ish— a  mere  projection  of  Shakespeare's  Idealiz- 
ing faculty,  at  the  fag  end  of  his  life. 

270 


Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

When  she  sees  the  courtiers  she  finds  them 
"  goodly  creatures,"  and  exclaims : 

How  beauteous  mankind  is!     O  brave  new  world. 
That  has  such  people  in't! 

— gentle  Shakespeare  at  his  best.  In  spite  of 
weakness  and  ill-health  he  is  still  all  admiration 
of  the  world  and  in  love  with  Its  bravery  and 
novelty. 

Of  all  his  masterpieces,  and  he  has  written 
more  than  a  dozen,  The  Tempest  is  the  most  ex- 
traordinary. We  have  noticed  in  him  from  the 
beginning  the  strange  union  of  poet-philosopher; 
one  moment  he  is  all  given  to  abstract  thought 
and  generalization,  stringing  together  a  myriad 
pearls  of  experience  in  one  phrase;  the  next  he  is 
all  passion  and  poetry  with  the  concrete  instance 
before  him  and  nothing  else. 

It  is  a  tendency  in  fine  minds  to  become  more 
philosophic  as  they  grow  older,  and  to  busy  them- 
selves with  types  and  abstractions  rather  than 
with  human  beings  and  human  passions.  Shake- 
speare shows  this  impulse  In  The  Tempest  as 
clearly  as  Goethe  does  In  the  second  part  of 
Faust;  but  Shakespeare's  abstractions  are  far 
more  human.  As  his  thoughts  soar  Into  the  blue, 
his  poetry  lifts  with  it,  and  the  lyrical  Interbreath- 

271 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

ing  of  human  passion  adds  the  pulse  of  life  to 
the  ineffable  spirit-beauty  of  the  thought.  Shake- 
speare had  the  shaping  spirit  of  imagination  at  his 
command  to  the  very  end;  Ariel  never  leaves  him 
till  set  free.  Goethe,  on  the  other  hand,  took  his 
abstractions  from  the  pure  intellect :  at  his  worst 
he  is  as  lifeless  as  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells;  his  types 
have  no  blood  in  them,  no  reality:  he  even  gives 
them  abstract  names  —  the  Have-Soons  and 
Have-Nothings.  But  Caliban  lives;  he  smacks 
of  the  soil:  we  know  his  drunkenness,  his  desires, 
his  temper;  even  Ariel  on  occasion  revisits  the 
glimpses  of  the  moon. 

I  find  proof  of  Shakespeare's  divine  intelli- 
gence in  every  difference.  Goethe  has  drawn  out 
the  second  part  of  Faust  till  it  is  a  weariness  of 
the  flesh  even  in  memory;  whereas  The  Tempest 
is  among  the  very  shortest  of  Shakespeare's 
dramas.  Till  the  end  our  poet's  judgment  was 
almost  unerring;  his  instinct  tremulously  true, 
like  needle  flickering  about  the  pole. 

He  suffered  in  life  infinitely  more  than  Goethe, 
more  even  than  Dante,  but  he  draws  out  of  it  all 
into  higher,  sweeter  air  than  even  the  greatest. 
This  Tempest,  as  I  have  said,  is  like  sun-warmed, 
love-warmed  fruit,  filled  with  the  juice  of  human 
kindness  and  sweet  to  the  core. 

272 


Shakespeare^s  Daughter  Judith 

Shakespeare  still  carries  about  with  him  his  in- 
dividual peculiarities  and  little  faults.  Though 
he  sees  himself  now  for  the  first  time  as  he  really 
is — a  mighty  magician  and  master  of  a  most 
potent  art,  he  cannot  resist  making  himself  a 
prince  as  well;  and  perhaps  with  reason;  for  he  is 
in  very  deed,  a  sovereign  whose  kingdom  is  not 
subject  to  boundary  of  space  or  time. 

The  personal  touches  are  most  dear  to  me. 
Here  at  the  very  end  he  confesses  how  he  gave 
up  all  ambitious  hopes  of  governing  and  desire  of 
state  for  secret  study  and  the  ''  bettering  "  of  his 
mind.  Like  Carlyle  he  cherished  the  belief  that 
he  could  ''  steer  humanity  "  more  wisely  and  to 
nobler  goals  than  the  professional  politicians,  and 
who  can  doubt  his  competence  though,  alas,  the 
silly  sheep-world  has  not  yet  realized  its  need  of 
such  divine  guidance.  Characteristic  it  is,  too,  of 
Shakespeare  that  he  should  ascribe  Prospero's  be- 
trayal and  downfall  to  his  trust  in  the  brother  he 
loved. 

Even  here  Shakespeare  cannot  forget  the  les- 
sons of  life.  He  is  delighted  to  see  that  Ferdi-  ~] 
nand  and  his  daughter  are  in  love  with  each  other;  / 
but  he  mistrusts  this  "  swift  business  "  and  takes  ) 
pains  to  trouble  the  course  of  true  love,  "  lest  too  \ 
light  winning  make  the  prize  light."     His  own  un-" 

273 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 


4 


happy  marriage  is  in  his  mind,  even  at  the  su-  \ 
preme  hour.     He  warns  Ferdinand  not  to  give  | 
*'  dalliance  too  much  the  rein,"  for  if  enjoyment  | 
comes  before  marriage  "  barren  hate  "  must  fol- 
low: I 

Sour-eyed  disdain  and  discord  shall  bestrew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathly 

That  you  shall  hate  it  both.  .  .  .  tj; 

'''■*'■ 

He  confesses  that  unlike  the  mighty  magician 
he  gives  himself  out  for  and  really  Is,  he  feels 
very  Infirm  and  weak,  and  often  has  to  walk  a 
httle  to  still  his  "  beating  mind."  j 

What  lessons  too  he  preaches;  the  same  lessons  ': 
he  has  preached  all  his  life — repentance  and  for-  j 
giveness.  Again  and  again  he  conjures  us  to  j 
trust  the  nobler  reason,  and  not  indulge  in  anger  | 
or  revenge : 

.  .  .  the  rarer  action  is  i 

In  virtue  than  in  vengeance;  they  being  penitent. 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further.  .  .  . 

And  at  the  very  end  when  life  Is  waning  to  Its 
exigent  he  will  have  all  about  him  cheerful.  He 
will  give  to  all  the  company,  Including  his  enemies, 
"  calm  seas  "  and  "  auspicious  gales,"  for  their 
homecoming;  for  It  Is  a  "  brave  new  world  "  and 
he  loves  the  "  goodly  people  "  In  It.     He  Is  very 

274 


Shakespeare's  Daughter  Judith 

human  too,  and  in  spite  of  his  courage  and  his 
desire  to  give  joy  and  sunny  days  to  others,  he 
knows  that  for  him  the  end  is  near  and  he  shud- 
ders at  the  thought  of  the  grave.  The  epilogue 
by  Prospero  is  heart-breaking  in  Its  unexpected, 
despairing  sadness : 

Now  my  charms  are  all  overthrown 
And  what  strength  I  have's  mine  own 
Which  is  most  faint.  .  .  . 
Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 
Must  fill^  or  else  my  project  fails, 
Which  was  to  please.     Now  I  want 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant. 
And  my  ending  is  despair 
Unless  I  be  relieved  by  prayer. 
Which  pierces  so  that  it  assaults 
Mercy  itself  and  frees  all  faults. 
As  you  from  crimes  would  pardon'd  be 
Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free. 

In  these  extremes  our  Shakespeare  discovers  him- 
self. At  one  moment  smiling  and  full  of  good 
wishes  for  all,  the  next  in  tears  overwhelmed  with 
the  sense  of  man's  mortality.  We  leave  him 
here  on  his  knees  praying,  our  gentle  Shakespeare, 
the  wisest  and  noblest  of  our  race;  for  though  we 
do  not  kneel,  and  have  almost  forgotten  how  to 
pray,  to  us  as  to  him  the  road  Is  shrouded 
in  never-ending  Night,  and  whither  It  leads  no 
man  may  divine. 

275 


CHAPTER    XIV 


A    LAST   WORD    ABOUT    SHAKESPEARE's    PASSION: 
THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIME  :  KING  HENRY  VIII. 


O INCE  I  began  publishing  these  studies  In  The 
•^  English  Review  two  questions  have  reached 
me  from  all  sides.  "  Can  you  prove  to  us,"  my 
correspondents  write,  "  a  little  more  fully  that 
Shakespeare's  affection  for  Herbert  was  merely 
friendship,  and  can  you  show  us  more  clearly  why 
he  was  unable  to  hold  Mary  FItton?"  .  .  . 
*'  Have  you  any  more  evidence  on  either  point?  " 
The  first  question  Is  no  longer  interesting.  I 
have  handled  It  convincingly.  It  seems  to  me.  In 
the  chapter  on  AlVs  Well,  and  really  the  answer  Is 
obvious:  Shakespeare  and  unnatural  passion  are  a 
contradiction  In  terms.  Think  of  It.  He  was  one 
of  the  most  Impressionable  and  articulate  of 
men;  he  had  boys  before  him  playing  girls'  parts 
for  twenty-five  years,  and  with  this  terrible  law- 
less passion  In  him,  he  never  lent  one  of  them  an 
ambiguous  word,  or  Invented  an  ambiguous  situa- 
tion.     Much  has  been  made   of  his   custom  of 

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A  Last  Word 

putting  his  heroines  into  boy's  clothes;  but  the 
critics  forget  that  his  heroines  were  boys  and  so 
there  was  no  suggestiveness  in  the  changed  rai- 
ment. When  Goethe  shows  his  heroine  in  a 
page's  dress,  the  erotic  appeal  is  undeniable. 

To  any  one  who  knows  Shakespeare  and  the 
mocking  intellect  in  him  which  created  lago  and 
Richard  III.  and  Thersltes,  the  assumption  that 
he  concealed  any  passionate  feeling  is  unthink- 
able. He  would  have  w^andered  on  the  forbid- 
den ground  at  every  opportunity:  the  dangerous 
suggestion  would  have  lured  him  back  uncon- 
sciously again  and  again;  his  works  would  have 
reeked  with  It.  He  was  not  ashamed  of  sensual 
passion  or  Its  expression;  he  delighted  in  both; 
he  avows  his  desire  for  his  gypsy-wanton  In  every 
poem  and  play  in  the  plainest  terms.  He  curses 
himself  for  being  too  fond;  while  the  despotic  In- 
tellect in  him  defends  even  his  lechery: 

For  why  should  others'  false  adulterate  eyes 

Give  salutation  to  my  sportive  blood? 

Or  on  my  frailties  why  are  frailer  spies. 

Which  in  their  wills  count  bad  what  I  think  good? 

No,  I  am  that  I  am,  and  they  that  level 

At  my  abuses  reckon  up  their  own: 

I  may  be  straight,  though  they  themselves  be  bevel; 

Sooner  or  later  Shakespeare's  imperial  intelli- 
gence would  have  asserted  that  what  was  good 

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The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

for  him  was  not  to  be  condemned  by  any  man  or 
by  all  men.  But  nowhere  is  there  a  hint  of  such 
an  attitude.  On  the  contrary  he  condemns  him- 
self and  his  mistress  again  and  again  for  yielding 
to  their  natural  passion. 

Moreover,  his  envious  contemporaries  who 
knew  him  most  Intimately,  who  criticized  him 
most  bitterly — men  like  Jonson  who  enjoyed  his 
friendship,  and  who  were  not  afraid  to  state  all 
they  knew  about  him — never  hint  at  any  such 
vice.  Jonson  does  not  hesitate  to  say  that  Shake- 
speare and  his  friend  had  between  them  "  but 
one  drab " ;  but  he  never  suggests  anything 
worse. 

The  sonnets,  too,  addressed  to  the  young  man 
which  have  any  warmth  of  desire  In  them,  are  one 
and  all  copied  from  the  lyrics  to  the  "  dark  lady  "; 
they  are  faint  pastels,  so  to  speak,  of  his  passion 
for  his  mistress.  The  person  who  cannot  feel  the 
significance  of  this  cannot  read  Shakespeare.  Let 
me  give  one  final  instance.  We  have  seen  that 
again  and  again  he  has  attributed  to  his  mistress 
that  magic  of  personality  which  makes  "  the  very 
refuse  of  her  deeds  "  become  her,  so  that  in  his 
mind  her  "  worst  all  best  exceeds."  He  has 
given  this  very  same  praise  to  his  Cleopatra,  and 
in  Sonnet  96,  he  attributes  this  power  to  his  youth- 

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A  Last  Word 

ful  friend:  but  here  the  expression  is  merely 
graceful  and  pretty  and  not  passionate : 

Thou  makest  faults  graces  that  to  thee  resort.  .  .  . 

The  following  two  lines  of  the  sonnet  show  that 
even  here  he  is  thinking  more  of  his  mistress  than 
of  the  youth;  and  then  the  tone  changes  to  one  of 
affectionate  reproof;  he  repeats  Parolles'  accusa- 
tion that  Bertram-Herbert  ate  up  the  fry  of  vir- 
ginity like  a  whale,  and  begs  his  friend  not  to  go 
on  in  this  evil  way: 

As  on  the  finger  of  a  throned  queen 

The  basest  jewel  will  be  well  esteem'd, 

So  are  those  errors  that  in  thee  are  seen 

To  truths  translated  and  for  true  things  deem'd, 

How  many  lambs  might  the  stern  wolf  betray. 

If  like  a  lamb  he  could  his  looks  translate! 

How  many  gazers  mightst  thou  lead  away, 

If  thou  wouldst  use  the  strength  of  all  thy  state! 

But  do  not  so;  I  love  thee  in  such  sort 

As  thou  being  mine,  mine  is  thy  good  report. 

The  palmary  peculiarity  of  Shakespeare's  in- 
tellect is  that  it  always  stands  for  morality — even 
for  conventional  sex-morality — for  the  rule  and 
not  for  the  exception.  He  regards  virginity  as 
the  priceless  jewel  of  a  girl:  virtue  in  a  woman 
has  to  him  but  one  meaning;  intimacy  even  in 
those  about  to  be  married  is  a  sad  and  terrible 
mistake;  lust  is  "  an  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste 

279 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

of  shame";  seduction  a  crime;  he  is  English 
through  and  through.  Indeed  he  is  so  desper- 
ately conventional  in  this  respect  that  I  have  to 
explain  his  obstinate  narrowness  to  myself  by 
saying  Mary  Fitton  was  seduced  before  she  met 
him;  probably  he  said  to  himself  "had  I  been 
the  first  with  her;  all  would  have  been  different: 
I  should  have  kept  her  true."  Shakespeare  only 
touches  upon  inverted  sex-relations  casually,  in 
TroUus  and  Cressida,  and  then  with  uttermost 
contempt  and  loathing.  I  will  not  labour  this 
point  more,  or  discuss  it  further;  it  is  beyond 
doubt. 

Shakespeare's  relations  with  his  wanton  mis- 
tress are  infinitely  more  complicated  and  more  in- 
teresting. Let  us  now  consider  the  whole  story, 
once  more,  and  see  whether  we  can  read  the 
riddle  of  Mary  Fitton's  unfaith  and  .of  Shake- 
speare's lifelong  passion. 

In  this  final  survey  the  reader  will  not  only 
have  to  use  imaginative  sympathy;  he  will  have 
to  trust  his  guide  a  little  as  Dante  trusted  Vergil. 
In  the  last  resort  it  is  by  faith  we  learn;  by  faith 
alone  we  grow.  I  have  a  very  definite  idea  of 
the  relations  between  Shakespeare  and  his  superb 
mistress;  so  far  as  I  can  prove  what  they  were,  I 
will;  but  beyond  proof  lies  the  magic  perfumed 

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A  Last  Word 

garden  of  passion  with  its  velvet-soft  ways  and 
flower-starred  banks  where  the  whole  being  is 
quickened  to  a  diviner  life,  and  men  and  women, 
ill-matched  in  every  other  relation,  may  here  win 
to  the  soul's  ecstasy. 

First  of  all  there  appear  to  be  contradictions, 
difficult  to  reconcile,  in  his  mistress's  character 
and  in  Shakespeare's  view  of  her.  The  points 
from  which  he  sees  her  lie  as  far  apart  as  winter 
from  summer;  they  are  separated  by  all  the  infi- 
nite between  love  and  hate.  From  what  we  know, 
indeed,  a  perfect  synthesis  of  the  contraries  is 
hardly  to  be  expected.  For  example,  in  Sonnet 
141,  he  tells  his  mistress  she  is  not  in  any  way 
perfect;  he  notes  a  thousand  errors  in  her,  and 
goes  on  to  declare  he  does  not  desire  her  '^  sweet 
body."     Here  are  the  astonishing  lines: 

Nor  are  mine  ears  with  thy  tongue's  tune  delighted; 
Nor  tender  feeling,  to  base  touches  prone^ 
Nor  taste^  nor  smelly  desire  to  be  invited 
To  any  sensual  feast  with  thee  alone: 
But  my  five  wits  nor.  my  five  senses  can 
Dissuade  one  foolish  heart  from  serving  thee. 

.  In  Sonnet  151,  on  the  other  hand,  he  asserts 
that  it  Is  his  "  gross  body  "  which  "  betrays  his 
nobler  part  ";  his  body  It  Is  which  forces  his  soul 
to  look  on  her  as  his  "  triumphant  prize."  At 
first  sight  here  Is  blank  contradiction  on  which 

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The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

the  professors  might  chew  for  ever;  yet  it  is  all 
simple  enough  really.  He  wants  to  tell  her  in  the 
earlier  sonnet  that  in  spite  of  her  faults,  he  adores 
her,  that  though  sensually  she  is  not  perfect  to 
him,  still  in  some  mysterious  inexplicable  way  she 
appeals  to  him  intensely.  He  desires  her  very 
imperfections  more  than  perfection  itself.  He 
has  known  more  cunning  mistresses,  women  better 
versed  in  the  subtle  arts  of  love;  but  still  he  pre- 
fers her,  and  the  second  sonnet  in  its  unrestrained 
sensuality  only  re-affirms  this  view. 

There  is  just  a  fragment  of  evidence  as  to  his 
mistress's  shortcomings  as  a  lover  which  I  have 
not  yet  used  and  which  I  must  introduce  here,  for 
it  shows  I  am  right  in  my  reading  of  these  appar- 
ently contradictory  sonnets.  In  1599,  ^  miscel- 
laneous collection  of  sonnets  and  poems  was 
published  under  the  title  of  "  The  Passionate  Pil- 
grime  by  W.  Shakespeare."  Some  of  these  son- 
nets and  poems  are  Shakespeare's;  some  belong 
just  as  certainly  to  others,  but  there  are  two  which 
are  not  positively  attributed  to  him,  which  are  his, 
Nos.  7  and  12.  The  twelfth  deals  with  the  dif- 
ference between  youth  and  age  and  does  not  con- 
cern us  here :  the  seventh  appears  to  be  a  poem 
written  about  his  mistress  in  the  early  days  of 
their  love-making.     It  is  a  realistic  snapshot  of 

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A  Last  Word 

her,  almost  as  complete  as  the  harsh  photograph 
of  Rosaline  In  Love's  Labour's  Lost.  The  verses 
were  probably  written  somewhat  later  than  the 
play;  for  we  find  in  them  the  Mary  Fitton  of  com- 
plete intimacy,  the  cajoling,  wheedling,  emotional 
wanton  afterwards  revealed  in  Cleopatra.  Every 
verse  is  astonishing  in  portraiture,  and  the  last 
line's  a  revelation: 

Fair  is  my  love^  but  not  so  fair  as  fickle, 
Mild  as  a  dove,  but  neither  true  nor  trusty, 
Brighter  than  glass  and  yet,  as  glass  is  brittle; 
Softer  than  wax  and  yet  as  iron  rusty: 
A  lily  pale,  with  damask  dye  to  grace  her, 
None  fairer,  nor  none  falser  to  deface  her. 

Her  lips  to  mine  how  often  hath  she  joined. 
Between  each  kiss  her  oaths  of  true  love  swearing! 
How  many  tales  to  please  me  hath  she  coined. 
Dreading  my  love,  the  loss  thereof  still  fearing! 
Yet  in  the  midst  of  all  her  pure  protestings. 
Her  faith,  her  oaths,  her  tears,  and  all  were  jestings. 

She  burn'd  with  love,  as  straw  with  fire  flameth; 
She  burn'd  out  love,  as  soon  as  straw  out-burneth; 
She  framed  the  love,'^nd  yet  she  foil'd  the  framing; 
She  bade  love  last,  and  yet  she  fell  a-turning. 

Was  this  a  lover,  or  a  lecher  whether? 

Bad  in  the  best,  though  excellent  in  neither. 

She  was  bad  as  a  lover  then  and  not  excellent 
even  as  a  mistress.  The  distinction  Itself  goes  to 
prove  that  Shakespeare  had  already  had  a  good 
deal  of  experience. 

283 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

But  loving  her  with  this  Intensity,  why  was  he 
unable  to  hold  her?  It  Is  true  she  had  been  loose 
before  she  met  Shakespeare,  and  a  *'  wanton  " 
who  win  be  *'  rigglsh  "  Is  much  more  difficult  to 
keep  loyal  than  a  maiden.  But  mere  sensuality  Is 
not  enough  to  explain  why  his  love  was  faithless 
to  Shakespeare;  Shakespeare  should  have  been 
able,  we  feel,  to  hold  any  woman  In  spite  of  va- 
grant desires. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  first  reason  of 
her  Infidelity  was  his  own  unfaith.  True,  he  Is 
always  asserting  his  devoted  love  and  perfect  con- 
stancy as  In  Troilus;  but  the  Trojan  youth  protests 
too  absolutely;  he  makes  one  suspicious.  If  we 
know  anything  about  Shakespeare  at  all,  we  know 
that  he  was  always  a  loose  liver.  It  is  curious, 
too,  that  he  never  suggests  the  man's  prior  fault 
as  excusing  or  explaining  a  mistress's  slips.  For 
example,  Cleopatra  Is  excessively  jealous;  when 
she  flirts  with  Thyreus  and  Antony  accuses  her, 
why  does  she  not  retort,  "And  you?  Did  you 
not  marry  Octavia  in  spite  of  your  promises  to 
keep  faithful  to  me?  "  But  not  a  hint  do  we  get 
of  the  retort  that  would  naturally  spring  first  of 
all  to  any  woman's  lips.  The  Galahad-like,  ex- 
travagant protestations  of  Troilus,  and  this  un- 
natural reticence  of  Cleopatra's  jealousy,  where 

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A  Last  Word 

reproach  would  be  both  natural  and  justified,  con- 
firm my  suspicions.  Mary  Fitton  was  probably 
as  true  to  Shakespeare  as  he  deserved,  and  if  she 
were  the  first  to  play  false  with  Lord  William 
Herbert,  it  was  at  the  very  beginning  of  their  in- 
timacy before  she  knew  much  about  Shakespeare, 
and  when  his  attitude  towards  women  was,  as  we 
have  seen,  very  light,  very  confident,  not  to  say 
contemptuous ;  calculated,  that  is,  to  inspire  a 
proud  and  passionate  woman  with  distrust. 

Let  me  first  answer  the  chief  questions  that  sug- 
gest themselves,  and  then  reconstruct  the  story 
and  see  whether  it  fits  in  with  what  we  know  and 
is  in  Itself  convincing.  First  of  all,  did  his  gypsy- 
wanton  really  love  Shakespeare?  She  gave  her- 
self to  him,  we  know,  with  utter  abandonment, 
and  certainly  taught  him  all  the  phases  of  jealous 
passion  so  that  he  was  able  to  reproduce  them 
afterwards  with  miraculous  assurance  in  Cleo- 
patra. I  am  inclined  to  think  from  the  assertions 
of  Enobarbus  that  Mary  Fitton  had  more  of  "  the 
finest  part  of  pure  love  "  in  her  than  Shakespeare. 

But  if  they  both  loved  passionately,  why  didn't 
the  ardent  desire  wear  itself  out  quickly?  How 
came  the  madding  fever  to  last  for  over  a  dozen 
years?  The  explanation  Is  to  be  found  in  the 
circumstances  of  the  lovers.     The  two  were  far 

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The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

apart.  Mary  Fitton  was  held  to  the  court,  and 
Shakespeare  to  his  theatre.  And  in  their  separa- 
tion both  were  continually  tempted;  the  flood  of 
desire  was  thwarted  and  hemmed  and  turned 
awry  by  all  sorts  of  obstacles. 

Why  did  Shakespeare  take  his  mistrees's  slips 
so  bitterly  to  heart?  He  must  have  known  that 
the  flesh  is  faithless  in  women  as  in  men,  and  al- 
most as  quick  to  thrill  to  the  allurement  of  change 
and  the  temptation  of  novelty.  We  feel  that  he 
should  either  have  had  resolution  enough  to  con- 
quer his  mistress  gradually,  and  win  her  to  loy- 
alty by  ineffable  tenderness,  or  he  should  have  ac- 
cepted her  for  what  she  was  and  thanked  her  for 
what  she  gave. 

Could  he  at  any  time  have  won  her  completely? 
Everyone  will  answer  this  question  according  to 
his  own  experience.  But  let  us  take  upon  us 
the  mystery  of  things  for  once,  and  be  as  God's 
spies  and  discover  the  heart  of  the  secret.  Had 
Shakespeare,  instead  of  telling  Mary  Fitton  how 
he  desired  her,  told  her  how  beautiful  she  was; 
had  he  given  her  tenderness  as  well  as  passion, 
and  honeyed  flatteries  rather  than  jealous  re- 
proaches, he  might  have  kept  her  true  to  the  end. 
It  was  just  his  weakness,  his  terrible  greedy  sen- 
suality, that  blinded  him  and  prevented  him  using 

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A  Last  Word 

his  attaching  soul-subduing  qualities.  This  once 
Shakespeare  was  as  human-foolish  as  the  rest  of 
us.  He  tells  us  in  Troilus  and  Cressida  that  love 
and  wisdom  don't  house  together: 

.  .  .  To  be  wise  and  love 
Exceeds  man's  might;  that  dwells  with  gods  above. 

He  desired  Mary  Fitton  too  madly  to  be  master 
of  his  resources  and  play  the  game;  he  did  not 
love  her  unselfishly  enough  to  win  her  or  lightly 
enough  to  accept  her  infidelities. 

Let  me  now  run  over  the  incidents  of  the  story. 
Shakespeare  seems  to  have  stepped  into  the  prim- 
rose path  very  heedlessly.  From  a  dozen  dramas 
we  know  that  his  love  kept  him  at  a  distance  at 
first;  Leontes-Shakespeare  says  that  Hermione 
kept  him  off  ''  three  crabbed  months,"  and  this 
was  possibly  about  the  period. 

He  could  probably  only  see  her  when  she  came 
to  the  theatre.  She  gave  herself  to  him  easily, 
never  dreaming  that  he  was  capable  of  a  death- 
less passion,  never  thinking  of  a  lasting  affection 
between  herself  and  this  older  married  man. 
Naturally  she  did  not  realize  his  worth,  his  ex- 
traordinary genius;  her  ignorance  nettled  his 
vanity,  and  in  the  hope  of  soothing  it  and  misled 
by  snobbishness  he  foolishly  sent  Lord  Herbert 
to  her. 

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The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

She  fell  In  love  with  Herbert,  who  was  of  her 
own  class  and  age  and  who  was  made  up  to,  as 
we  know  from  The  Lover's  Complaint,  by  all 
the  court  ladles  as  the  very  flower  of  aristo- 
cratic fashion.  She  won  him,  but  soon  had  to 
recognize  his  utter  unworthiness.  Later  she  took 
up  with  Shakespeare  again,  and  they  tasted  all 
the  sweets  of  love  together.  But  his  ticklish 
vanity  had  been  wounded  by  her  preference  for 
Herbert,  and  his  high  ethical  conscience  con- 
demned her  looseness.  Probably,  too,  her  fail- 
ure to  appreciate  him  at  his  true  value  kept  a  cer- 
tain contempt  of  her  alive  In  him.  Then,  too,  it 
was  difficult  to  meet  her  as  often  as  he  would  have 
wished,  and  he  made  these  difficulties  a  grief 
against  her. 

At  length,  partly  out  of  anger,  partly  out  of 
contempt  of  her,  partly  out  of  wounded  vanity, 
partly  because  he  was  very  sensual,  he  betrayed 
her  with  some  Mrs.  Daventry,  the  Oxford  Inn- 
keeper's wife,  or  other  beauty.  No  doubt  Mary 
Fitton  heard  of  It.  London  was  a  small  place  In 
those  days,  and  the  courts  and  theatres  were 
whispering  galleries  of  scandal,  and  naturally 
her  ''  foul  pride  "  at  once  Incited  her  to  better 
his  teaching.  Then  his  jealousy  flamed  Into  hat- 
ing   and    contemptuous-bitter    reproaches    as    he 

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A  Last  Word 

shows  us  in  Hamlet.  Afterwards,  reconcilia- 
tions took  place,  and  all  anger  was  drowned  in 
days  of  delighted  abandonment;  we  can  hear  his 
heart  throbbing  heavily  in  Othello  and  in  Troilus 
and  In  Antony,  and  so  the  wild  passion  stormed 
along  for  a  dozen  years,  now  in  heaven,  now  in 
hell,  till  Mary  Fitton  married  for  the  second  time 
in  1608,  and  left  the  court  and  Shakespeare  never 
to  return. 

I  have  told  how  Shakespeare  crept  home  to 
Stratford  a  broken  man  and  how  in  his  native  air 
he  was  nursed  back  to  life  again  by  his  daughter 
Judith.  As  soon  as  he  recovered  some  slight 
measure  of  strength,  thoughts  of  his  fascinating 
mistress  returned  to  him,  and  his  jealous  rage  be- 
gan to  torment  him  again.  At  length,  warned 
probably  by  Increasing  weakness,  he  pulled  him- 
self together  for  a  final  effort,  and  wrote  The 
Tempest. 

As  we  have  seen,  the  whole  of  Shakespeare's 
^  mature  work  is  coloured,  inspired,  indeed,  by  his 
love  of  Mary  Fitton;  all  his  great  tragedies  are 
steeped  In  his  Insensate  passion  for  his  gypsy- 
mistress.  Without  her  he  would  never  have 
written  Hamlet,  Othello,  Macbeth,  Timon,  or 
Lear,  nor  pictured  his  Cleopatra.  Had  she  been 
less  wilful-wanton,  he  might  have  been  happier 

289 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

perhaps;  but  he  would  never  have  reached  such 
self-knowledge  or  attained  such  fame.  Mary 
Fitton  did  not  lead  Shakespeare  to  the  "  heart  of 
loss,'^  as  his  Antony  cried,  but  to  the  Holy  of 
Holies  of   Fame's  Temple.     Yet  Shakespeare* 

*  All  the  critics,  headed  by  Tennyson  and  Emerson,  give  this 
magnificent  passage  to  Fletcher;  the  masters  because  there 
are  weak  passages  in  the  scene,  the  critics  because  forsooth 
there  is  often  an  extra  syllable  at  the  end  of  the  verse.  They 
are  all  mistaken.  They  might  as  well  give  the  great  soliloquy 
in  liamlet  to  Fletcher.  There  is  nothing  of  this  quality  in 
all  Fletcher's  writings.  Every  word  of  it  is  pure  Shakespeare, 
and  every  word  of  it  can  be  matched  in  his  other  work.  The. 
equivalent  of  the  first  lines  can  be  found  in  Antony  and  Cleq^ 
*paira,  Act  IV,  scene  xii. 

/*  she,  Eros,  has 

/  Pack'd  cards  with  Caesar,  and  false  play'd  my  glory 
I    Unto  an  enemy's  triumph 

The  splendid  simile: 

f   "  No  sun  shall  ever  usher  forth  mine  honours  " 

we  have  already  admired  in  Sonnet  132  when  Shakespeare 
compares  his  mistress's  eyes  to  that 

"  full  star  that  ushers  in  the  even." 

"  Gild "  every  reader  of  the  sonnets  knows  is  a  favourite 
word  of  the  master-poet  and  "  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
upon  my  smiles "  we  have  already  met  in  Shakespeare-Mac- 
beth's  longing  for  "  troops  of  friends."  Weak  endings  or 
strong,  only  one  man  has  ever  lived  in  England  who  could 
write  such  poetry. 

290 


A  Last  Word 

repeats   and   emphasizes  his   accusation   against 

her  in  Henry  FIJI,    His  Wolsey  says : 

....  all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  for  ever: 
No  sun  shall  ever  usher  forth  mine  honours,  ^^-"^" 

Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
Upon  my  smiles.  .  .  . 

What  does  Shakespeare  mean?  It  is  his  most 
intimate  sincerest  utterance ;  his  poetry  even  never 
reaches  higher  pitch  on  this  theme.  We  must 
weigh  each  word  then  in  fine  balances. 

First  of  all,  why  this  plural,  "glories?" 
Shakespeare  we  know  had  lost  Lord  William 
Herbert  through  Mary  Fitton,  and  he  had  hoped 
great  things  from  him.  The  young  lord,  no 
doubt  had  praised  him  enthusiastically  and  prom- 
ised as  soon  as  he  himself  came  to  power  to  get 
the  poet  a  place  under  government — a  place  in 
which  his  extraordinary  qualities  might  have  a 
fair  field. 

Shakespeare,  as  we  have  already  noticed, 
hinted  at  something  like  this  in  The  Tempest. 
The  hope  of  high  position  explains  to  me  his  ex- 
traordinary subservience  to  Herbert  in  the  Son- 
nets, and  the  extravagant  way  he  afterwards  in 
play  after  play  blamed  his  ingratitude.  It  would 
need  a  volume  to  collect  all  my  reasons  for  this 
view.     My  readers  must  not  think  I  put  it  forth 

291 


The  ffomen  of  Shakespeare 

hastily   or   without   due   thought.      But   prove   it 
completely  I  cannot  here  or  perhaps  anywhere. 

In  fine  I  think  Shakespeare  means  to  tell  us 
that  all  his  highest  ambitions  foundered  in  the 
loss  of  Herbert's  friendship,  and  he  lost  Herbert 
through  Mary  Fitton. 

.   .  all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  for  ever  .  .  . 

He  means  further  that  he  had  spent  the  best 
twelve  years  of  his  life  in  the  earthy-coarse  ser- 
vice of  his  imperious  mistress,  just  as  Ariel,  "  the 
shaping  spirit  of  his  imagination  ",  had  passed 
twelve  years  in  the  service  of  Sycorax,  the  foul 
witch.  Blinded  by  his  English  dislike  of  "  lan- 
guishing love  "  and  his  English  condemnation  of 
lust,  Shakespeare  does  not  see,  or  wnll  not  see, 
that  it  was  just  his  intense  passion  for  his  mis- 
tress that  gave  soul  to  his  greatest  works;  in  other 
words,  that  he  owes  the  better  half  of  his  glory 
to  the  mistress  he  reviles  and  condemns.  He  does 
not  see  either,  or  will  not  see,  that  the  woman  a 
man  loves  with  such  passion  must  be  his  ideal, 
must  correspond  most  intimately  to  all  his  de- 
sires— conscious  and  unconscious — as  coin  to  die; 
she  is  his  complement;  and  to  condemn  her  is  self- 
condemnation. 

292 


I 


A  Last  Word 

But  was  Mary  Fitton  then  Shakespeare's 
equal  ?  Is  the  question  which  will  spring  to  almost 
every  lip.  Certainly,  In  Love's  lists,  Is  the  only 
possible  reply.  To  him  she  was  marvellously 
beautiful,  her  figure  even  more  enchanting  than 
her  face:  he  talks  of  "glorious  casket"  In  Per- 
icles and  In  Twelfth  Night  confesses 

.  .  .  'tis  that  miracle  and  queen  of  gems 
That  nature  pranks  her  in  attracts  my  soul." 

When  at  his  best,  as  In  Antony  and  Cleopatra, 
Shakespeare  himself  recognized  and  acknowl- 
edged that  his  proud  gypsy  was  at  least  his  peer. 
Again  and  again  In  that  marvellous  love-duet 
he  Insists  on  the  Incomparable  qualities  of  "  the 
queen  of  love."  It  is  Enobarbus,  the  spirit  of 
truth,  who  says: 


Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety:  other  women  cloy 
The  appetites  they  feed,  but  she  makes  hungry 
Where  most  she  satisfies :  for  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her  .  .  . 

Again  and  again  Shakespeare  makes  her  equal 
to  himself: 

No  grave  upon  the  earth  shall  clip  in  it 
A  pair  so  famous  .  .  . 

293 


The  Women  oj  Shakespeare 

One  might  even  push  conjecture  further  and 
find  a  vague  analogy  In  science.  Every  chemical 
element  has  an  atomic  weight  according  to  which 
it  unites  with  other  elements.  Each  of  these  ele- 
ments Is  negatively  electric,  we  are  told,  to  the 
element  above  it  in  the  tables,  and  positively  elec- 
tric to  the  one  below.  Mary_FItton_was  so 
strong  that  she  seems  to  have  been  the  positive 
or  masculine  element  and  Shakespeare  so  gentle- 
sensitive  that  he  was  the  feminine  element  in  the 
strange  union.  The^quljias  not  always  the  sex 
of  the  body. 

But__this  may  rightly  be  called  guesswoijc. 
What  we  know  from  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is 
that  Shakespeare  came  very  near  complete  pos- 
session of  his  proud,  passionate,  witty  mistress. — 

A  little  less  and  what  worlds  away. 

His  partial  failure  was  the  tragedy  of  his  life: 
the  throbbing  hours  of  possession  his  heritage  of 
joy. 

Before  parting  with  Shakespeare  after  these 
twenty-five  years  of  loving  Intimacy,  I  must  clear 
him  from  one  reproach,  for  It  Is  brought  against 
him  by  his  own  kin.  Emerson  finds  high  words 
with  which  to  praise  him;  he  calls  him  "  master 

294 


A  Last  Word 

of  the  revels  to  mankind,"  admits  that  the  fore- 
most people  of  the  world  are  now  for  some  ages 
to  be  nourished  "  on  his  thoughts,"  their  minds 
are  '*  to  receive  his  bias  " ;  but  at  the  same  time 
he  wonders  regretfully  that  Shakespeare  should 
not  have  been  "wise  for  himself"  .  .  .;  that 
"  the  best  poet  led  an  obscure  and  profane  life, 
using  his  genius  for  the  public  amusement." 
And  In  order  that  the  dullest  should  be  In  no 
doubt  as  to  his  meaning  Emerson  adds  that 
"  the  world  still  wants  Its  poet-priest,  Its  recon- 
ciler." .  .  . 

Now  and  again  In  the  course  of  these  studies 
I  have  drawn  attention  to  this  side  of  Shake- 
speare's activity — a  side  not,  I  think,  sufficiently 
realized  or  Indeed  understood  by  Emerson.  It 
was  hardly  to  be  supposed  that  any  Englishman 
of  high  genius  would  be  found  wanting  In  the 
priestly  art.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Shakespeare 
was  far  more  of  the  priest  than  the  profane 
player  or  playwright:  he  was  not  only  pro- 
foundly religious;  but  he  has  given  In  his  plays 
more  thought  and  labour  to  defining  both  his 
faith  and  practice  than  any  other  world-poet, 
more  even  than  Dante.  The  conclusions  which 
he  favoured  may  not  please  a  Puritan  of  the  Pu- 
ritans who  came  three  centuries  later;  but  they 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

will,  I  believe,  be  found  In  another  three  cen- 
turies to  have  worn  even  better  than  Emerson's; 
for  Shakespeare's  mind  swings  In  a  wider  orbit. 
Let  me  try  just  to  state  what  Shakespeare 
thought  and  felt  about  the  most  Important  and 
enduring  relations  of  man.  Strange  to  say, 
Shakespeare  was  more  of  a  Christian  than  Emer- 
son himself.  Trying  to  define  the  method  and 
secret  of  Jesus,  Matthew  Arnold  declares  that 
repentance  was  the  method,  and  the  secret,  In- 
ward happiness  or  peace.  Shakespeare  would 
have  accepted  at  least  half  this  teaching.  As 
early  In  his  life  as  The  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona  (Act  V,  Scene  4),  and  as  late  as  The 
Tempest  (Act  V,  Scene  i),  he  preaches  repent- 
ance.    Here  are  the  passages: 

Who  by  repentance  is  not  satisfied 

Is  nor  of  heaven  nor  earth,  for  these  are  pleased. 

By  penitence  the  Eternal's  wrath's  appeased: 

And  again  fifteen  years  later: 

.  .  .  the  rarer  action  is 
In  virtue  than  in  vengeance:  they  being  penitent. 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further.  .  .  . 

Emerson   would   not  have   accepted  this   first 
article    of    the    Christian    faith:    for    Emerson 

296 


A  Last  JVord 

disliked  repentance  as  much  as  his  teacher 
Goethe. 

But  though  Shakespeare  believed  in  repentance 
as  earnestly  as  any  Christian  Father,  he  never 
goes  on  to  promise,  with  Matthew  Arnold,  that 
repentance  will  bring  peace,  much  less  inward 
happiness.  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  regarded 
repentance  as  natural  to  the  sinner,  godly  re- 
pentance, too,  as  a  Puritan  would  say,  that  is 
repentance,  "  and  a  clear  life  ensuing." 

In  another  way  Shakespeare,  starting  with  re- 
pentance, goes  further  than  Matthew  Arnold. 
Again  and  again  he  insists  that  after  repentance 
forgiveness  is  obligatory;  he  will  not  use  "  a 
frown  further."  Towards  the  end  of  his  life  he 
pushed  this  creed  to  its  ultimate:  Cymhellne 
dates  probably  from  1610-11:  It  ends  In  recon- 
ciliation, just  as  The  Winter's  Tale  and  The 
Tempest  end,  in  defiance  of  dramatic  require- 
ments, Shakespeare  having  some  desire  appar- 
ently to  be  what  Emerson  wanted — a  ''  recon- 
ciler " ! 

The  climax  of  the  play  Is  centred  in  lachimo's 
repentance.  In  his  latter  days  Shakespeare  had 
no  vision  of  a  character  to  whom  repentance 
would  be  impossible.  lachimo  then  (Act  V, 
Scene  5)    Is  forced  to  his  knees  by  his  "heavy 

297 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

conscience,"   and  this  is  how  Shakespeare-Post- 
humus  treats  him: 

.  .  .  Kneel  not  to  me: 
The  power  that  I  have  on  you  is  to  spare  you; 
The  malice  towards  you  to  forgive  you:  live 
And  deal  with  others  better.  .  .  . 

Curiously  enough,  Shakespeare  does  not  end 
with  this  word  of  his  alter  ego  Posthumus. 
Again  and  again,  as  we  have  seen,  he  has  used 
Cymbeline  the  king  as  his  masque,  and  now  he 
gives  Cymbeline  the  final  judgment: 

Cym.  .  .  .  Nobly  doom'd ! 

We'll  learn  our  freeness  of  a  son-in-law; 
Pardon's  the  word  to  all.  .  .  . 

At  the  risk  of  being  again  accused  of  pushing 
conjecture  to  absurd  lengths,  I  must  confess  that 
this  passage  seems  to  me  expressly  used  by 
Shakespeare  to  praise  his  son-in-law  Dr.  Hall, 
whose  piety  was  traditional.  Hall  probably  in 
talk  had  said  something  about  universal  forgive- 
ness, and  Shakespeare  wished  to  give  him  credit 
for  It,  and  then  found  the  finest  word  for  his 
own  belief: 

Pardon's  the  word  to  all. 

At  his  best  moments  Shakespeare,  I  think, 
felt  clearly  enough  that  no  man  is   responsible 

298 


A  Last  Word 

for  his  actions  any  more  than  he  Is  responsible 
for  his  face:  free-will  even  to  the  casuist  must 
be  narrowly  limited.  In  any  case  this  is  his  su- 
preme word  on  human  justice : 

Pardon's  the  word  to  all.  .  .  . 

The  very  form  of  the  phrase  Is  as  characteristic 
as  the  thought:  it  reminds  me  of  Hamlet's 
"  The  rest  is  silence." 

The  last  years  of  his  life  spent  In  the  company 
of  his  pious  daughter  and  son-in-law  seem  to  have 
Influenced  Shakespeare  profoundly.  Though  he 
had  probably  passed  only  a  year  or  so  In  Strat- 
ford when  he  wrote  The  Tempest,  It  Is  plain  al- 
ready that  he  has  been  affected  by  the  fervent 
faith  of  his  relatives.  In  the  Epilogue  to  The 
Tempest  he  shows  for  the  first  time  a  belief  In 
prayer  or  at  least  a  willingness  to  use  It  and  a 
recognition  of  a  personal  deity.    The  words  are : 

And  my  ending  is  despair, 
Unless  I  be  relieved  by  prayer. 
Which  pierces  so  that  it  assaults 
Mercy  itself  and  frees  all  faults,  .  .  . 

These  words  show  that  at  the  last,  when  stand- 
ing within  the  shadow,  Shakespeare  was  very 
close  Indeed  to  the  Christian  attitude. 

But  If  our  gentle  poet  believed  In  repentance 
299 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

and  prayer  as  fully  as  the  devout  Christian  be- 
lieves in  them,  and  carried  the  duty  to  forgive- 
ness, too,  as  far  as  St.  Francis  himself  would 
have  carried  it,  it  must  be  admitted  that  there 
his  Christianity  ends.  Posthumus  takes  pains  to 
assure  us  that  he  does  not  believe  in  any  personal 
life  after  death.    He  says  to  the  Gaoler: 

I  tell  thee,  fellow,  there  are  none  want  eyes  to  direct 
them  the  way  I  am  going,  but  such  as  wink  and  will  not 
use  them. 

And  the  First  Gaoler  in  Shakespeare's  own  voice 
affirms  the  meaning  in  his  answer: 

What  an  infinite  mock  is  this,  that  a  man  should  have 
the  best  use  of  eyes  to  see  the  way  of  blindness.  .  .  . 

To  Shakespeare  as  to  Emerson,  the  end  of  life 
is  annihilation  so  far  as  personal  identity  is  con- 
cerned. 

Yet  just  as  Shakespeare  was  more  of  a  Chris- 
tian than  Emerson,  more  convinced  of  the  efficacy 
of  repentance,  of  the  need  of  prayer,  of  the  joy 
of  forgiveness,  so  he  was  more  of  a  pagan  in 
morals,  or  at  least  more  tolerant.  Emerson  finds 
Rabelais'  love  of  filth  disgusting:  he  likens  him 
to  some  dirty  boy  who  writes  obscene  words  in  a 
public  place  on  the  sly  and  runs  away  to  escape 
punishment. 

300 


A  Last  Word 

But  Shakespeare,  like  Jesus,  had  infinite  toler- 
ance for  the  sins  of  the  flesh:  the  greatest  of 
ethical  teachers  said,  "  Much  shall  be  forgiven 
her,  for  she  loved  much,"  and  Shakespeare 
through  the  old  Countess  of  Rousillon  insists 
that  desire  and  youth  are  inseparable.  He  might 
have  gone  further,  one  feels,  and  justified  what 
is  at  once  natural  and  beautiful.  Here  are  the 
words  which  I  have  shown  elsewhere  are  to  be 
taken  as  his  words : 

.  .  .  this  thorn 
Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong; 

Our  blood  to  us,  this  to  our  blood  is  born; 
It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth^ 
Where  love's  strong  passion  is  impress'd  in  youth:  .  .  . 

Now  if  one  considers  the  perfect  tolerance  of 
these  passages  and  then  puts  side  by  side  the  say- 
ing of  Jesus : 

Let  him  that  is  without  sin  among  you  east  the  first  stone 

and  Shakespeare's : 

Pardon's  the  word  to  all  .  .  ., 

it  becomes  clear  that  Shakespeare  must  have 
been  very  like  Jesus.  Curious  to  me  it  is  and  in- 
finitely touching  that  both  were  continually  called 
"  gentle  " :  curious,  too,  that  Shakespeare,  coming 
sixteen  centuries  later,   and  having  shed  off  the 


The  Women  of  Shakespeare 

superstitious  belief  in  a  life  after  death,  should 
still  hold  practically  the  same  faith;  the  two 
greatest  men  of  whom  time  has  any  record  in 
perfect  agreement  on  the  essentials  of  faith  and 
practice. 

It  seems  to  me  infinitely  characteristic  that 
whereas  the  George  Eliots  and  Emersons  and 
all  the  Puritans  cling  to  the  childish  morality  of 
Pauline  Christianity  and  discard  as  useless  the 
intense  religious  emotion,  the  forgiveness  and 
sympathy  and  pity — the  true  piety  which  Jesus 
brought  to  men  in  His  Gospel  of  Glad  Tidings, 
Shakespeare  with  a  finer  instinct  discards  the 
puerile  morality  while  keeping  the  sacred  emo- 
tion. 

Let  me  go  further  still:  there  is  one  passage  in 
Shakespeare  that  sings  itself  in  my  ears — a  couple 
of  lines  fraught  with  the  rarest  spirit-beauty, 
throbbing,  too,  with  personal  feeling — it  is  in 
Richard  II.:  Shakespeare,  speaking  casually  of  a 
bishop  who  died  and  was  buried  in  Venice,  says 
he  gave 

His  body  to  that  pleasant  country's  earth 
And  his  pure  soul  unto  his  captain  Christ.  .  .  . 

Here  we  have  gentle  Shakespeare  speaking  with 
the  very  accent  of  Jesus :  nothing  in  the  Imitation, 

302 


A  Last  Word 

nothing  of  St.  Francis  seems  to  me  to  breathe  the 
very  spirit  of  the  Master  so  sweetly  as  this — 

.  .  .  and  there  at  Venice  gave^ 
His  body  to  that  pleasant  country's  earth 
And  his  pure  soul  unto  his  captain  Christ.  .  .  . 

After  abusing  me  for  making  Shakespeare  too 
passionate-sensual,  the  critics  are  now  beginning 
to  complain  that  I  have  made  him  too  saintly. 
The  extremes  of  his  genius  offend  their  undue 
love  of  mediocrity:  they  would  do  better  to  con- 
sider whether  this  angelic  temper  and  sweet- 
thoughted  aspiration  are  not  the  natural  accom- 
paniment, perhaps  even  an  inevitable  outgrowth, 
of  that  passionate  sensuality  they  so  detest  and 
despise — the  strong  root  and  scented  flower  of 
the  divine  nectary  whose  name  is  Love. 


S09 


INDEX 


Abbess,  33,  34,  149,  211. 

Achilles,  199. 

Adonis,  122,  206. 

Adriana,  XI,  22,  23,  Q6,  27,  29, 

30,  31,  32,  33,  34,  35,  43,  44, 

51,  149,  211. 
Agincourt,  238. 
Agrippa,  222. 

Ajax,  XVII,  103,  199,  200,  201. 
Albany,  182. 
Alcibiades,  188. 
Alexander,  200. 
All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  53, 

65,   83,    134,    149,    150,    151, 

212,  276. 
Andromache,  199. 
Anne,  36,  37,  38,  51,  52,  59. 
Antigone,  67. 
Antiochus,  252. 
Antipholus,  26,  32,  34. 
Antonio,  256. 
Antony,   X,   13,   14,  214,   216, 

217,  218,  220,  221,  222,  223, 

225,  227,  228,  229,  230,  232, 

233,  235,  284,  288. 
Antony    and    Cleopatra,    XV, 

13,   158,  161,  196,   198,  214, 

215,  224,  225,  247,  292. 
Apemantus,  187. 
Arden,  Mary,  246. 
Argus,  XVII,  98,  201. 
Ariel,  270,  272,  292. 
Aristophanes,  138. 
Aristotle,  234. 
Arnold,    Matthew,    240.    296, 

297. 


Arthur,  43,  44,  46,  47,  66. 
As  You  Like  It,  89,  91,  99. 
Aufidius,  240,  241. 
Austria,  44,  45. 
Autolycus,  262. 

Balfour  of  Burleigh,  I. 

Balzac,  I. 

Bandello,  69. 

Bankside,  52,  54. 

Bardolph,  53. 

Bassanio,  61,  98,  142,  205. 

Bastard,  70. 

Beatrice,  XI,  85,  86,  89,  115, 
163,  164,^  197,  260,.  205. 

Benedick,  85,  87,  118. 

Bennett,  Arnold,  133. 

Benvolio,  69,  74,  75. 

Bertram,  65,  135,  136,  140, 
142,  143,  144,  146,  152,  153, 
154,  155,  156,  157,  158,  160, 
193,  195,  234,  279. 

Bernard  Shaw,  66. 

Bianca,  39. 

Biron,  70,  93,  94,  95,  96,  97, 
98,  99,  100,  102,  103,  104, 
105,  106,  108,  109,  110,  111, 
112,  113,  120,  139,  148,  160, 
195,  212. 

Blanch  (King  John),  49. 

Bottom,  II,  56,  66. 

Boult,  251,  257,  258,  259. 

Boyet,  102. 

Brandes,  Dr.,  145. 

Brawne,  Fanny,  196. 

Briareus,  XVII,  201. 


305 


Index 


Brooke,  Arthur,  69,  70. 
Browninpr,  XVII. 
Brutus,  166,  203,  234,  240. 
Byron,  2. 

Cade,  Jack,  22. 

Caesar,  158,  217,  219,  222,  223, 

225,  228,  232,  233,  234,  235, 

290. 
Caius  Marcius,  241. 
Caleb  Balderstone,  I. 
Caliban,  272. 
Capulet,  75. 
Carlyle,  273. 
Cassandra,  203. 
Cassio,  174,  175. 
Cervantes,  21. 
Chamberlain,  Mr.,  267. 
Chapman,  XVII,  199,  200. 
Charmian,  228. 
Chettle,  49. 
Clarendon,  153. 
Claudio,  85. 
Cleopatra,    XI,    14,    155,    214, 

216,  217,  218,  221,  222,  223, 

224,  225,  226,  231,  232,  233, 

234,  235,  247,  265,  278,  282, 

284,  285. 
Coleridffe,  XVIII,  2,  6,  7,  9, 

11,   36,    134,    135,    137,  251, 

256. 
Comechi  of  Errors,   The,  XI, 

22,  26,  49,  52,  149,  211. 
Condell,  8. 
Constance,  XI,  43,  44,  46,  47, 

66. 
Coriolanus,  XII,  237,  238,  239, 

240,  242,  243,  244,  245,  246. 
Cordelia,  164. 
Costard,  96. 
Creon,  67. 
«  Cressid,"  XI,  208. 
Cressida,    155,    157,   202,    203, 

204,  205,  206,  207,  208,  209, 

211,  212,  213,  223,  232,  265. 
Cromwell,  XIV. 


Cupid,  75,  87,  95. 
Cymheline,  259    263    264,  265, 
269,  299. 

Dame  Quickly,  53,  68. 
Dante,    XVII,    115,    137,   162, 

163,  213,  280,  296. 
Dauphin,  18. 
Daventry,  Mrs.,  288. 
Dekker,  200,  201,  202. 
Demetrius,  1^5,  58. 
Desdemona,  20,  164,  165,  174, 

175,  176,  177,  178,  265. 
Dian,  74,  116. 
Diana,  75,  154,  193. 
Diomedes,  209,  210,  213. 
Doll  Tearsheet,  68. 
Don  Pedro,  87. 
Dowden,  Professor,  145. 
Drake,  239. 

Dromio  of  Ephesus,  29. 
Duchess  of  York,  39. 
Duncan,  180. 

Edgar,  183,  184,  251. 
Edmund,  182,  183. 
Edward,  16,  37. 
Elinor  (King  John),  44,  49. 
Elizabeth,  Queen,  238. 
Emerson,    147,   289,   295,   296, 

297,  299,  300. 
Enalish  Review,  The,  276. 
Enbbarbus,  218,  220,  226,  227, 

228,  229,  285,  292. 
Eros,  220,  221,  290. 
Essex,  54. 
Eversley  Edition,  6,  141. 

Faerie  Queen,  The,  6. 
Falstaif,  22,  53,   68,   76,   104, 

258. 
Faust,  271,  272. 
Ferdinand,  264,  270,  274. 
First      Gaoler      {Cymheline), 

300. 


S06 


Index 


First  Part  of  King  Henry 
VI.,  7,  8,  9,  13,  22,  23,  37, 
38,  52,  53. 

First  Lord  {All's  Well  that 
Ends  Well),  159. 

First  Senator   (Timon),  189. 

Fitton,  Mary,  XI,  XII,  XIII, 
72,  74,  75,*  76,  77,  79,  85,  86, 
88,  89,  91,  92,  98,  100,  104, 
106,  107,  109,  114,  115,  120, 
121,  125,  127,  129,  130,  131 
132,  134,  135,  138,  143,  149, 
151,  154,  155,  157,  158,  164, 
165,  168,  176,  177,  ^,78,  193, 
194,  195,  218,  219,/220,  222, 
223,  228,  231,  234,  235,  247, 
249,  255,  260,  267,  269,  276, 
280,  284,  285,  286,  287,  288, 
289,  291,  292,  293. 

Flavius,  160. 

Fletcher,  137,  289,  290. 

Florizel,  ^^62. 

Fra  Angelico,  21. 

Francesca,  2,  68,  137. 

Fulvia,  225,  226. 

Glaucus  and  Silla,  6. 
Gloucester,  36,  59,  184. 
Goethe,  2,  21,  68,  163,  271,  272, 

277. 
Goneril,  XI,  182,  183,  190. 
Gratiano,  61,  70,  81. 
Gretchen,  2,  68. 
Greene,  53. 
Guildenstern,  159,  160,  172. 

Hall,  Dr.,  299. 

Hamlet,    X,    XIV,    107,  150, 

151,  165,  166,  173,  174,  181, 
197,  198,  266,  287. 

Hamlet,  76,  80,  107,  138,  159, 

160,  165,  166,  167,  168,  169, 

170,  171,  172,  173,  174,  185, 

214,  215,  218,  234,  236,  254, 

255,  256,  261,  263,  266,  268, 
290. 


Hamnet,  42,  49,  262. 

Harry  V.,  176. 

Harvey,  Gabriel,  5. 

Hathaway,  Ann,  25,  30,  50. 

Hector,  198. 

Heine,  145. 

Helen,  203. 

Helena,  55,  56,  58,  65,  83,  135, 
137,  138,  139,  140,  141,  142, 
143,  144,  145,  145,  147,  149, 
151,  152,  153,  156. 

Hemyng,  8. 

Henry    V.,  258. 

Henry  VII.,  XIV. 

Henry  VIII.,  259,  290. 

Hero  and  Leander,  4. 

Hero,  85. 

Herford,  Profesor,  6,  9,  10, 
57,  141,  165,  188,  251,  257. 

Hermia,  55,  5Q,   58. 

Herbert,  Lord  William,  101, 
118,  119,  120,  121,  122,  125, 
129,  130,  131,  132,  133,  134, 
135,  137,  143,  146,  154,  155, 
157,  158,  171,  172,  178,  193, 
194,  200,  233,  267,  268,  284, 
287,  291. 

Hermione,  260,  287. 

Hesperus,  140. 

Holinshed,  17,  36,  239. 

Homer,  137,  199,  200. 

Horace,  5. 

Hortensio,  40. 

Hotspur,  70,  164,  176. 

Hubert,  46. 

Hyperion,  169. 

lachimo,  266,  268,  298. 
lago,  177,  277. 
Imogen,  2,  177,  263,  264. 
Iras,  233. 

Jaques,  ^5Q. 

Joan   of  Arc,   10,   11,   16,   17, 

18,  19,  21,  22,  51,  241. 
Johnson,  Dr.,  146,  152,  156. 


S07 


Index 


Jonson,    Ben,    XVIT,   49,    50, 

200,  201,  25T,  278. 

Judith,  XII,  249,  258,  289. 

Julia,  XI,  58,  59,  60,  Gl,  63, 
64,  65,  68,  71,  73,  76,  77,  78, 
79,  81,  82,  83,  84,  86,  103, 
115,  164,  197. 

Juliet,  XI,  61,  67,  68.  69,  70, 
71,  72,  73,  74,  77,  78,  81, 
84,  86,  103,  115,  166,  191, 
207,  208,  250,  264,  265. 

Julius  Casar,  151,  152,  181, 
203. 

Katharina  {Taming  of  the 
Shreiv,  The),  XI,  39,  40,  41, 
42,  52. 

Katherine  {Loire's  Labour's 
Lost),  109. 

Keats,  196. 

Kemp,  72,  80. 

Kent,  160. 

King  John,  XT,  42,  43,  44,  49. 

King  Philip,  44,  45,  46,  47. 

La  Comedie  Humaine,  I. 

Laertes,  171,  173. 

Lafeu,  159,  160. 

Lang,  Mr.  Andrew,  91. 

Lavina,   8. 

Lear,  181,  182,  183,  184,  185, 
186,  190,  197,  198,  257,  259, 
261,  265,  266,  267,  289,  293. 

Leonardo  da  Vinci,  83. 

Leontes,  260,  261,  ^G5,  266, 
287. 

Longaville,  104. 

Lover's  Complaint,  The,  129, 
137,  287. 

Love's  Labour's  Lost,  22,  35, 
51,  57,  70,  78,  79,  83,  91, 
92,  93,  108,  109,  115,  120, 
195,  197,  202,  213,  224,  282. 

Lucetta,  53,  59,  60. 

Luciana,  28,   29. 

Lucrece,  5,  22. 


Luther,  213. 
Lysander,  55,  58. 
Lysimachus,  357. 

Macbeth,  80,  179,  180. 
Macbeth,    80,    150,    151,    179, 

180,  181,  198,  289,  290. 
Macbeth,  Lady,  XI,  179,  180, 

182. 
Madame  Bovary,  2. 
Mamillius,  49,  261. 
Manon  Lescaut,  2. 
Marcus  Aurelius,  21,  253. 
Mardian,  228. 
Margaret,   10,   11,   12,   16,  22, 

23,  38,  39,  91,  52. 
Margaret    (Charles   Reade's), 

84. 
Marina,    XII,    249,   250,    251, 

257,  258,  262,  263. 
Marlowe,  4,  53. 
Marston,  200. 
Martin,  St.,  198. 
Measure  for  Measure,  107. 
Memenius,  160. 
Merchant  of  Venice,  The,  57, 

70,  98,  241. 
Mercutio,   68,   70,   76,  88,   94, 

98,  138. 
Meredith,  162. 
Michelangelo,  150,  163. 
Midsummer    Night's    Dream, 

A,  53,  54,  57,  58. 
Mignon,  2. 
Milton,  2. 
Miranda,  XII,  249,  250,  269, 

270.  - 

Mortimer,  13,  14,  16,  21. 
Mtich  Ado  about  Nothing,  87, 

89,  91, 118,.  121,  133, 156,  248. 

Nerissa,  59,  61. 
Nero,  253. 

Night  Watch,  The,  67. 
Noble  Stranger,  The,  5. 


308 


Index 


Nurse    {Borneo    and    Juliet), 
68,  72,  85,  138,  164,  265. 

Octavia,  230,  231,  233,  284. 
Ophelia,  89,  107,  150,  164,  165, 

166,  171,  172,  173. 
Orsino,  Duke,  X,  165. 
Osric    159 
Othello,  19,  20,  165,  168,  174, 

175,  176,  177,  178,  194,  288. 
Othello,    165,    168,    174,    176, 

177,  178,  179,  181,  192,  194, 

197,  198,  261,  288,  289. 
Oxford,  288. 

Painter,  69. 

Palace  of  Pleasure,  The,  69. 

Pandar,    202,    203,    204,    205, 

206,  257. 
Pandulph,  45. 
Parolles,    135,    141,    153,    154, 

157,  160,  212,  268,  279. 
Passionate  Pilgrim,  The,  282. 
Paul,   St.,   IX,    160. 
Paulina,  260,  261. 
Pembroke,   170. 
Perdita,  XII,  2,  249,  250,  262, 

263,  265. 
Pericles,    249,    251,    252,    253, 

254,  255,  Q56,  257,  259,  292. 
Petruchio,  40, 
Phebe,  87,  88. 
Phrynia,  108,  190. 
Pietk  of  the  Rodanini  Palace, 

150. 
Pistol,  53,  141,  241. 
Plutarch,  214,  215,  242. 
Polonius,  170,  177. 
Pompev,  217,  219. 
Portia,'  XI,  59,  61,  G^,  64,  68, 

73,  70,  81,  82,  83,  84,  85,  86, 

98,   103,   109,  115,  129,  141, 

142,  151,  164,  166,  197,  250. 
Posthumus,  14,  168,  261,  QQQ, 

267,  268,  298,  299. 
Princess  of  France,  94. 


Prospero,  251,  268,  273,  275. 
Proteus,  57,  59,  60,  61,  63,  82. 
Puck,  5Q. 
Pupillus,  5. 

Queen  Elizabeth,  37,  72. 
Quickly,   Dame,   68. 

Rabelais,  300. 

Raleigh,  239. 

Rape  of  Lucrece,  The,  5. 

Raphael,  115. 

Reade,  Charles,  84. 

Regan,  182,  183,  190. 

Rembrandt,  67. 

Richard  (Duke  of  Glou- 
cester),  36,   37,   39. 

Richard  II.,  35,  66,  302. 

Richard  III.,  36,  39,  51,  59, 
179,  218,  277. 

Richardson,  John,  25. 

Robinson  Crusoe,  2. 

Rodanini  Palace,  150. 

Romeo,  37,  68,  69,  70,  72,  74, 

76,  203,  208. 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  XI,  57,  QQ, 
67,  73,  74,  77,  78,  79,  85, 
93,  108,  115,  120,  161,  195, 
215    223. 

Rosalind,  XI,  2,  78,  79,  86,  87, 
'88,  89,  99,  166,  197. 

Rosaline,  XI,   73,   74,   75,   76, 

77,  78,   79,  93,   95,  98,   196, 
197,  204. 

Rosaline  {Love's  Labours 
Lost),  XI,  35,  88,  91,  92, 
93,  94,  95,  96,  98,  99,  100, 
101,  102,  103,  104,  109,  110, 
112,  113,  139,  166,  195,  197, 
202,  203,  213,  224,  282. 

Rosencrantz,  159,  160,  172. 

Rouen,  17. 

Rousillon,  Countess  of,  146, 
147,  148,  149,  160,  300. 


Sacred  Mount,  238. 


309 


Index 


St.   Francis,  302. 

Salisbury,  45. 

Sandells,  Fulk,  25. 

Scott,  I. 

Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  The, 

23. 
Sharp,   Becky,   2. 
Shaw,   Bernard,   66. 
Silvius,  87,  88. 
Sonnets: 

23,  p.  122. 
26,  p.  122. 
33,  p.  122. 
99,  p.  123. 

121,  p.  17. 

127,  p.  99,  104,  106. 

130,  p.  105,   ]23, 

132,  p.  290. 

140,  p.  101,  126. 

144,  p.  131. 

147,  p.  126. 

148,  p.  104,  106. 

150,  p.  105,   127,   179,  226. 

151,  p.  127. 

152,  p.  128. 
Sophocles,  67,  137,  138. 
Southampton,  54. 
Spencer,  138. 

Stratford,  XII,  7,  42,  43,  248, 

289. 
Suffolk,  10,  11,  12,  16,  23,  25, 

37,  51. 
Swinburne,  4,  10,  11,  13,  14,  19, 

146,  251,  252,  256. 
Sycorax,  292. 
Sylvia,  58,  62,  63,  64. 

Talbot,  10,  15,  16,  17,  21. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew,  The, 
XI,  39,  51. 

Tamora,  8,  22,  51, 

Tearsheet,  Doll,  68,  258. 

Tempest,  The,  XTI,  XV,  248, 
259,  264,  269,  271,  272,  273, 
289,  291,  296,  298,  299. 

Temple  Gardens,  9. 


Tennyson,  289. 

Thersites,  206,  277. 

Third  Part  of  Henry  VI.,  36. 

Thyreus,  219,  232,  284. 

Titus  Andronicus,  7,  8,  22,  38. 

Timandra,  108,  190. 

Timon,  108,  181,  186,  187,  188, 

189,  190,  191,  192,  197,  198, 

200,  261,  266,  292. 
Titania,  56,  66. 
Tolstoi,  182. 
Troilus,  204,  205,  206,  208,  209, 

210,  211,  212,  213,  284,  288. 
Troilus  and  Cressida,  196,  198, 

199,  200,  202,  204. 
Trojan,  211,  284. 
Troublesome    Reign   of   King 

John,  The,  43,  70. 
Troy,  208. 
Tioelfth  Night,  65,  89,  91,  118, 

165. 
Two    Gentlemen    of    Verona, 

39,  53,  57,  58,   65,   71,   117, 

118,  121. 
Two  Noble  Kinsmen,   The,  9. 
Tyler,  Mr.,  72,  127. 
Tyre,  256. 

Ulysses,  209,  210,  211. 

Valentine,  58. 

Venus  and  Adonis,  3,  4,  5,  6, 

7,  22,  74,  122,  206. 
Virgil,  280. 

Viola,  89,  140,  151,  165..^ 
Volumnia,  XII,  2437^46. 

Wells,  H.  G.,  272. 
Whitehall,  93,  100,  120. 
Winter's    Tale,    The,   49,    177, 

260,  263,  298. 
Wolsey,  XIV,  290. 
Wordsworth,  2. 


Xanthippe  oi  Socrates,  50. 


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